Family, Friends and Other Complications
by Namaste
Summary: Wilson finds himself drawn into the House family and all its issues. NOW COMPLETE
1. When Blythe Met Wilson

_AN: When I first saw "Daddy's Boy," it seemed to me that Wilson and House's parents had a long-standing relationship of some kind. They certainly knew each other, and Wilson seemed to be something of a conduit between House and his parents -- arranging din__ners, talking to John House directly etc. So I decided to play with how that contact was established, and how it grew. I'm stealing a bit from myself here, using the same format from "Tracking Time" in terms of seeing their relationship develop. Rather tha__n year-by-year however, the fic's chapters will be made up of their meetings during different events. So the first chapter is "When Blythe Met Wilson," the second "When Greg Got Sick." (Others planned include "When Greg Went Home" and "When Stacy Left.")_

_Now I have a general idea of where this is going, but I also want it to be a little more organic than my last multi-chapter fic, so if anyone has any ideas or suggestions, feel free to share._

The first time Blythe met James Wilson he was laughing.

So was her son.

She stopped in the hallway outside Greg's office and listened to the sound of his laugh. It was deep and quiet. She smiled at the sound, let it wash over her. It echoed off the walls in a deep baritone, a contrast to the other laugh coming from the room. That one was lighter, freer than Greg's had been since he was a young boy.

Blythe waited as the laughter died down and was replaced with the low murmur of voices before she stepped forward again. She knocked on the half-opened door as she walked into Greg's office.

She looked first at Greg where he sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair. He smiled when he saw her and for a moment she forgot any worries she'd had about the flight to New Jersey or the drive to Princeton.

The other voice had belonged to a younger man. He was slouched in a chair opposite the desk, appearing at ease in the room and with Greg. He sat up straight when she walked in.

Blythe looked back at Greg. He remained tilted back in his chair.

"Hi Mom," he said. He looked past her to the empty hallway.

"Your father's waiting in the car," she said.

"Why?"

"He didn't want to pay for parking. He said he'd drive around the block a few times."

"I've told him I can validate his parking." Blythe recognized the frustrated look on her son's face. She nodded slightly.

"I know," she said. "I reminded him of that, but you know your father."

"Unfortunately," Greg mumbled. Blythe ignored him.

"He says free parking is for real patients. It's not right for him to use it just when he's visiting."

Greg shook his head and covered his eyes with one hand. With the other he gestured across the desk. "Mom, this is Wilson, Wilson, my Mom."

Blythe took in the white coat, the name embroidered above the left chest pocket, obscured by a half-dozen pens. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Wilson," she said.

He stood. "Call me James," he said, and shook her hand. Blythe liked the way he looked her in the eye, made her feel as if she was the most important person in the room.

"Call him Jimmy, he loves that," Greg said, and Dr. Wilson smiled slightly, turned back toward him.

"I've always assumed someone taught him manners, but he just ignores them," Dr. Wilson said. He smiled and winked slightly at Blythe and she smiled back, happy to be a part of the joke. She could tell he was younger than Greg, but probably not as young as he looked.

"Do you work for Greg?"

Both men answered at once.

"He wishes," Greg said. "I'd never have him."

"No, thank God," James said.

Both of them smiled, and Blythe heard a slight chuckle coming from Greg.

"I'll let you get back to not working together then," she said.

"Don't go on my account, Mrs. House," James protested. "I was just leaving."

"That's quite all right," Blythe said. "I just wanted to let you know that we'd gotten into town."

"They have these new inventions called telephones," Greg said. He got up and walked around his desk. "You could have called."

"I know I could have, but we were passing right by," Blythe said. "It was just as easy to stop in. Besides, this way I get to tell people I'm here to see my son, the doctor."

Greg gave her a quick hug. "Just don't give them my name," he said. "You might not get the reception you were hoping for." He turned with her to walk her out of the office. He released the hug, but kept one arm around her shoulders as they walked side by side down the hall. James followed, closing the door behind them.

"Gee thanks." Greg turned to James, speaking over the top of Blythe's head. "What if I didn't have my key?"

"Then you would have picked the lock, same thing you do when you want to get into my office," he said.

A friend, Blythe thought. Greg's got a friend. She was surprised to feel the same happiness in this as she had when he was nine and they'd moved to a new base.

"You two staying at the same place?" Greg asked. Blythe looked up at him and nodded. "We'll pick you up there at 7 for dinner," he said.

"I thought Stacy was out of town this weekend." Blythe felt Greg's arm loosen around her shoulders, then drop away as they entered the main hallway.

"She is," he said. "Wilson's joining us."

"I am?"

"You are," Greg said. "I need a wing man to divert my Dad's attention. You can tell him sob stories about brave cancer patients. He'll love that."

"Greg, your father is not your enemy." Blythe heard Greg give a dismissive snort, but he didn't say anything. "But James, you're more than welcome." Then she smiled. "Maybe you can tell me why my son hasn't provided me with any grandchildren yet."

"On second thought, Wilson, forget about it. No reason to put you out," Greg said.

James just laughed at that. "I wouldn't dream of disappointing your mother, House, not when it sounds like it could be such an interesting evening."

The elevator opened and Blythe stepped in. Greg and James both remained in the hallway. She pushed the button for the lobby level. "I'll see you both at seven," she said, and waved as the doors closed.

It was five minutes past seven when Greg and James arrived at the hotel. John had been ready to go at five minutes before seven, and had insisted they head to the lobby to wait there.

"What if we miss them?" Blythe had asked.

"We won't," John said.

He was right. John was watching the front doors when they came in. He was on his feet before they'd pushed open the second set of doors, walking through side by side. Blythe saw Greg lean over and say something to James, and James smiled slightly.

"You're late," John said.

Greg looked at his wristwatch, tapped the crystal. "Must be running slow," he said.

"That excuse work on your boss?" John asked.

Blythe touched his arm. "Don't start," she whispered, but she'd already seen the look on Greg's face change. The humor that was in his eyes when he'd walked into the hotel had disappeared.

"My boss has better things to do than clock my every second," Greg said.

"Sorry, it's my fault," James said. "I had some car problems." Blythe didn't believe him, but was grateful for the lie. He stepped forward, held his hand out to John. "I'm James Wilson. It's a pleasure to meet you."

John took his hand, shook it. Blythe saw him study James. "What kind of problems?"

"Nothing serious," James said. John let go of his hand and James pushed both his hands down into the pockets of his overcoat.

"You sure? Sometimes what looks easy isn't."

"Loose battery cable," Greg said. "I fixed it."

Blythe saw James steal a quick look at Greg, but he didn't correct him.

"Maybe I should take a look at it," John said. "Just in case."

"It's fine now," James said. He nodded toward Blythe. "So what did you do this afternoon, Mrs. House?"

It was a bad attempt to change the subject, but Blythe wasn't going to complain. "Nothing special," she said. "There's a tea shop downtown that Stacy took me to once. I made John come with me and we just took a break. Traveling isn't as easy to these old bones as it used to be."

James smiled. "That's what my mother says whenever she comes for a visit."

"Are they far away?" Blythe noticed that neither John nor Greg seemed to be paying attention, but at least they weren't fighting.

"Not far," James said. "About a three-hour drive. Good thing because my father hates to fly."

"Scared?" John asked.

"The way he puts it is that he's not scared of flying, it's just the landing he worries about," James laughed a little, and Blythe noticed that John seemed more relaxed than he'd been while they waited. "My Dad claims he had a bad flight back when he was in the Army, and he never wanted to try it again."

"What did he do in the Army?"

"Nothing exciting," James said. "Supply. He always complained that the Army sent him all the way to Germany just to pump gas."

"When was he there?"

Blythe saw John relax, just the slight movement from the perfect posture of a Marine to the casual stance he adopted at home as he spoke with James. She wondered if he realized how easily James had steered him into a comfortable topic. She wondered if James knew how good he was at it. She glanced over at Greg and saw the slight smile on his face. He, obviously, knew about James' talent.

Greg caught her looking at him and winked. "So," she said, "where are we going to dinner?"

"Seeing as you're outnumbered three-to-one in the gender category today, I figured we'd hit a steak house," Greg said.

"And you already dragged me out for tea. I've had enough doilies and white tablecloths for one day," John said. She was pleased to see him agree with Greg on something. "Steak it is."

----------------

Wilson didn't know what he expected from House's parents. House had spoken a few times about his mother, about traveling. His silence about his father told Wilson more about their relationship than the few things he'd actually said.

"Call him Colonel. He'll like that," House had said on the way over. Wilson couldn't tell then if it had been House's idea of a joke, but looking at John House now, he couldn't think of him as anything but the Marine Corps officer he was.

"Officer," House's voice echoed in his memory. "Not a gentleman."

The man to Wilson's left didn't resemble House at all. He sat straight while House leaned forward in his chair, playing with his fork. The Colonel held himself as if he were six inches taller than he was, while House slouched, making it easy to forget how tall he was.

Wilson looked over at Blythe House, seeing there the finer bone structure that House carried, the slender fingers, the high cheekbones.

"I can't imagine why anyone would want to be a cancer specialist," the Colonel said, and Wilson turned back toward him. "Not that we don't need cancer doctors, but it seems like it'd be damned depressing."

"Be even more depressing if no one went into it," Wilson said, and was satisfied to see him snort in approval.

It was only when the man spoke that Wilson could see any resemblance between House and his father, all blunt comments and no sympathy.

"I don't imagine it's anything my son would be any good at," the Colonel said. "Too much hand holding for his taste."

"Maybe I think I can do something better than just hold their hands," House said, "like save their lives."

Wilson saw House's mother glance down at her salad plate, concentrating on stabbing a tomato, and Wilson wondered if the stress was this intense every time House and his father were in the same room.

"I've seen your bedside manner, House," Wilson teased, trying to ease the tension. "I think they're happier when you're nowhere near them."

"All part of my grand plan," House said. "That way patients never ask to see me."

Wilson was glad to see Blythe House smile at the teasing, though the Colonel's stern expression hadn't changed.

"But Greg's done a lot to help us out in oncology," Wilson said and looked over at the Colonel. "He's consulted on some of my more difficult cases."

"Which just goes to show the sorry state of oncology these days," House said.

The Colonel didn't say anything, just finished off his beer. Wilson glanced down at his own salad plate, and stabbed a bit of lettuce and a cucumber. The table fell back into silence. He looked back up, saw House still playing with the fork, balancing it across the knife.

Wilson swallowed his bite of salad and cleared his throat. "So House ... Greg," Wilson corrected himself, "Greg told me you flew faster than the speed of sound once."

"More than once," the Colonel said. "I've gone over Mach 1.5, but of course that's nothing these days."

Wilson asked him another question, then another, letting the sound of the Colonel's voice fill their corner of the restaurant. The Colonel told him about training and the test flights he used to take out over desert and ocean. He was telling about his second supersonic flight when Wilson glanced to his right. House and his mother were talking softly on the other side of the table.

After dinner, as they walked through the parking lot Blythe House slid next to Wilson.

"I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Mrs. House," he said.

"Please, call me Blythe," she said. "And I enjoyed myself very much. Thank you, James, for everything."


	2. When Greg Got Sick

There was no discussion about validation, about parking, about what was fair, the next time they flew to New Jersey.

John picked up the rental car at the reservation counter in Newark and they drove in near silence to Princeton. Blythe couldn't remember if it was sunny or gray that morning. She passed the miles the same way she'd spent the night on the plane, saying silent prayers.

James met them outside the doors to the intensive care unit.

"He's sleeping," James said. He motioned toward the waiting room. "Why don't we step in there, I can ..."

"No." Blythe was surprised to hear the word come out of her mouth. "I need to see him. Please. Just for a minute."

She felt John's hand encircle hers. She felt him squeeze her hand. "Please," John said.

James looked at them both, then nodded. He led the way through the double doors into the ICU, then paused outside the glass doors at a room across from the nurse's station.

"Just for a minute," he said, and slid open the door.

Blythe stepped in slowly, not sure what to expect. Greg didn't react to the sound of the door, and James mentioned something about the amount of medication he was on. He looked thin, and Blythe was surprised at how much older he looked laying there. She reminded herself that Greg's hair started getting some gray in it a few years ago, but he'd always been in motion before, his body trying to keep up with the speed of his brain. Now, unmoving, there was nothing to distract her attention. No smile or wink or even an exaggerated rolling of his eyes in frustration to hide the lines that she now saw beginning to appear around his eyes. She suddenly felt older herself, feeling the weight of her years for the first time.

John stopped at the foot of the bed, and she let go of his hand, placing it instead on Greg's still hand, taking comfort in feeling the warmth of his fingers beneath her own. He reacted slightly to the touch, his thumb moving to brush against her hand, though he didn't wake. She was reminded of when he was a baby, and would grip tight to her finger.

She stepped up against the mattress and leaned down toward him. "Greg, honey, I'm here," she whispered in his ear. She lay her other hand against his cheek, kissed him softly on the forehead. He took a deep breath. Blythe thought she heard him mumble the word "Mom," but it might have been moan. He took another breath, then sank back into deep sleep.

Blythe felt a touch on her sleeve, and looked up to see James standing there. He didn't say anything, but she could read the look on his face. She stepped away again, back toward the door.

She paused at the entrance to the room. John still stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes focused on Greg's face. Finally James stepped next to him, nodded, and John turned away, followed Blythe to the doorway. James took one last look into the room, then slid the door shut behind them.

James led them to his office. "We'll have more privacy," he said. He offered them coffee and Blythe sat quietly. John ignored the chairs, instead he stood at the window. He hadn't said anything since he first saw Greg, but Blythe could sense the emotions rolling off him: worry, anger, fear.

James returned with their coffee and put it on the desk. Blythe picked hers up, feeling the heat through the paper cup as she listened to James explain what had happened. A clot, muscle damage, surgery. He looked down at his own desk at one point, seemed to gather his thoughts in silence for a moment before moving on in the story. He was holding something back, Blythe thought. She guessed it had been worse than he was telling them, had been worse than she had imagined even.

She watched his face as he spoke, saw the way he watched her, watched John's reactions. Blythe knew he wasn't telling them everything, but decided to trust him.

"But, he'll be all right now, won't he?" she asked.

James paused, and she felt the fear build again. "For the most part, yes," he finally said. "He'll live, he'll go home, he'll complain about his patients." He leaned forward toward her. "But you need to understand. There was a lot of damage to his leg. It's too soon to say yet how extensive that damage was."

"Will he..." Blythe closed her eyes, tried to picture Greg as he used to be, tried to will a snatch of memory of him running down the hall in some anonymous base housing, sliding along the linoleum floor in his socks. All she could see was him in that bed upstairs. "Will he walk again?"

James looked down at his own hands. Blythe thought she could almost see her question roaming through his brain as he considered what could happen -- the good and the bad. She wondered if she would have been happier if he'd just smiled and given her an empty promise. She was glad he hadn't. Finally James looked up. He didn't seem as tired as he'd been just a few moments earlier, and Blythe felt hope rise in her, even as he said there were no guarantees.

"But," James said, "I wouldn't bet against him."

John headed back to California the day after they moved Greg out of intensive care. He made excuses that his men needed him, that he couldn't trust his XO on his own for more than a few days.

"The man's an idiot," John said and Blythe saw Greg nod slightly.

"I know the type," Greg said.

John held out his hand and Greg stared at it for a moment before he took it. John put his other hand on the top of their clasped hands, the closest Blythe knew he'd ever get to giving a hug. "I'm glad you're doing better," he said.

James stood at the far end of the room, dressed casually this time in jeans and a t-shirt. He had the night off and insisted on driving John to the airport, so Blythe could keep using the rental. Blythe could see him take in the awkward handshake, saw him wince when John stepped away from the bed and Greg allowed his hand to drop back down onto the mattress.

-----------------

"You probably think I'm an ass," John House said. It was the first time he'd spoken since they left the hospital thirty minutes earlier.

Wilson glanced over at him. "Why would I ..."

"For leaving," the Colonel said. "My son almost dies, and I leave after paying a quick social call."

"I don't think that," Wilson said. "He's stable, and you need to get back."

"No, I don't," the Colonel said. "At least not right now. I could stay longer."

Wilson looked at him again. The Colonel stared straight out the window, not bothering to look his way. "You probably hate me, just like he does," John said.

"He doesn't hate you," Wilson said, but the Colonel didn't answer.

Wilson flicked the blinker, pulled into the left lane and passed a sedan going five miles under the speed limit. It was quiet in the car for a minute, two minutes, three.

"I'm not like you, Wilson," the Colonel finally said. "The Corps is good at teaching men how to kick ass. It's not so good at telling them how to hold someone's hand and tell them they're going to be all right. Maybe that's the one thing my son and I have in common."

Wilson wasn't sure if he wanted to make the Colonel feel better. He thought about telling him that it wasn't too late, that they could still head back to Princeton, book a later flight. He thought about telling him it would might mean something to House if his father stayed, but he didn't. House needed support, and Wilson wasn't sure if his father was willing to actually provide that -- or if House would be willing to take it from him.

"I don't think your son would want a lot of people hovering over him anyway," he finally said, knowing that at least that much was true. "Maybe he'll do better without an audience."

Wilson saw the Colonel nod, then he fell back into silence. Another ten minutes, and he took the exit for the airport, followed the stream of traffic to the terminal. He stopped the car, popped open the trunk and the Colonel pulled out his bag.

"Thank you Wilson," he said, and held out his hand. Wilson took it, felt the strong grip. "And not just for the ride."

"Anytime," he said.

The Colonel turned and walked into the building without looking back.


	3. When Greg Went Home

Blythe watched from across the room as James took the last few items out of the night stand drawer: a book, headphones, a harmonica, the electric razor Greg never used as often as she would have liked.

"Is that everything?" James put them in the gym bag on Greg's bed.

Greg stood next to the bed, crutches under his arms, his right foot resting lightly on the floor. Blythe wondered if he was in pain, or trying to work out the tension that she could feel radiating off of him as he squeezed his hands tight on the crutches' foam pads, his knuckles turning white. He finally nodded and James zipped the bag shut.

Blythe had hoped she'd finally see him smile today, finally see him looking happy to be going home. He'd complained often enough about the hospital room. The mattress was too thin, and the sheets too stiff, he'd say. It was too loud, or too quiet. It was too cold, or too hot. It was too bright to sleep, or too dark to read.

"For as much as we're paying, we should at least get some porn on the TV," he'd said once, tossing the remote aside.

"Greg," she'd admonished, but he wasn't paying attention. Wasn't even trying to amuse himself by trying to get a reaction from her. He'd gone back to staring at the wheelchair that had been placed in his room. His face was blank. Blythe couldn't make out what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and she wasn't sure what that meant. He'd always let her in before, let the mask drop, given her just the slightest glimpse even as he hid himself away from John, from his teachers, from his teammates.

Now he shut her out too.

"He doesn't want you to worry," James assured her.

They had been sitting at the diner just down the road from the hospital. Lunch became their tradition the day after John left, when James told her she should take some time away, just relax for a few minutes.

"All you see are the walls here, and the walls at the hotel," he said.

"You're no better," she reminded him, and James gave her a sheepish smile.

"Then we can both use the break," he'd said.

Blythe had sat with her cup of soup, idly stirring the thick broth as it cooled. "I can't do anything for him," she'd confessed. "He doesn't need me."

"Yes, he does," James said. "He just doesn't realize that yet."

So Blythe kept going back, talking to Greg about everything, and about nothing -- about the house at the new base, about his aunts and cousins, about John's latest assignments, about the places they had been.

He had responded, had given the expected answers, but his expression never changed. Blythe had hoped he would open himself up to Stacy, but he didn't seem to be any better with her.

James had finally told her some of what happened, of the decision Stacy had made. Greg had refused to talk to her about it, claiming he was tired and needed to sleep anytime she brought it up. Stacy just shook her head and said she wasn't ready to talk about it either.

"Not yet," she'd said. "Maybe when Greg's ready I'll finally be ready."

It took nearly a week before Greg let the mask slip, and he didn't do it for her, or for Stacy.

Blythe was in the hall on her way to Greg's room when she heard his voice.

"And it never occurred to him that he was attempting to give a pelvic exam to a transvestite?" Blythe ignored the words and concentrated on the tone of his voice. Greg sounded ... almost happy. He seemed to have more energy than he had that morning, or the night before, or the morning before that.

"Clueless." James laughed at his own story.

"Med students get dumber every year," Greg said. "And the nurse never clued him in?"

"I think the nurse set him up," James said.

"I don't know if we should thank that nurse, or fear her," Greg said.

"Both, probably."

Greg chuckled -- just for a moment -- and Blythe closed her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, then stepped into the room. There was a light behind Greg's eyes, and it lingered there even when James excused himself, saying he had to see a patient.

"Guess I missed the big joke," she said, and Greg shook his head.

"Medical stuff," he said. "You'd be bored."

The mask fell back into place when a nurse came in with Greg's medicine, and stayed there through the rest of the day. It was there the next morning, and the next.

It was only when James was there that he seemed to relax. Blythe would sit in a chair at the edge of the room, pretending to read, and watch them. She saw the way that James could make him let go of whatever he hid from her and from Stacy.

She'd catch snatches of their mumbled conversations filled with hospital gossip, interesting patients, intriguing diseases or even the results of a ball game. Greg's voice would stop and she'd see James lean in, listen to some whispered secret Greg wouldn't share with anyone else. Later she'd catch James making notes in Greg's file at the nurse's desk, explaining something to them in quiet tones she could never make out.

She told herself that she wasn't jealous that it was James who Greg confided in, rather than her, though she knew she was. She missed that part of him that had belonged only to her. But she consoled herself that at least Greg had someone he trusted. That was the important part.

Blythe called John at the end of the week, told him she'd be coming home in a few days, as soon as Greg was settled back at home.

"Good," John said. "I'm getting tired of eating at the officer's club."

She laughed. "And I miss you, too," she said.

She heard the squeak of the rubber tip on Greg's crutches on the tile floor as he turned. James had the bag slung over his shoulder and waited as Greg settled himself down in the wheelchair for the ride out to the car.

Stacy had stayed at home, getting some last minute things done before Greg came home and Greg rode home in silence, sitting in the passenger seat of James' car, the seat pushed all the way back.

James stood aside and let Greg open the door when they got the condo, and Greg pushed the door wide open. Stacy had picked up the rugs so the wooden floorboards were bare -- nothing to trip over, Blythe thought. Stacy had even moved some of the chairs out of the center of the living room, making a wider path between the front door and the kitchen.

"Welcome home," Stacy said, and kissed Greg as he stood in the entryway.

Greg hunched forward on his crutches, looking at the walls, at the furniture. Blythe wondered if he was noting everything that had been removed, or everything that remained. "Good to be home," he said. She couldn't tell if the words meant anything to him.

He passed through the living room and across to the hallway. He stopped outside the bathroom and stared inside at the changes -- the grab bars, the shower seat, the bare tile floors. James watched Greg, then slowly stepped up to him.

"You probably want to take a break," he said. Greg didn't respond. "I'm going to take your Mom out for one last lunch, see if I can't get any more juicy stories out of her."

Greg turned to him, looked at Blythe and nodded, then turned away from the bathroom, headed toward the bedroom.

They ended up inside a restaurant at the mall. The lunch crowd had already cleared out, and they found a booth next to the windows. Blythe ordered a sandwich and looked outside. There was a woman walking up to the mall's entrance, one hand pushing a stroller, the other holding tight to a young boy. The boy was pulling her forward, trying to break away, to get inside, but she held fast.

The waitress came by with their drinks as the woman reached the door, let go long enough to pull it open.

James took his Coke and put the iced tea in front of Blythe.

"It's all right for you to go back home," he said. He leaned forward and kept his voice soft. Blythe wondered how many times he'd had this conversation before, reassuring anxious families that somehow everything would be all right, even though everything had changed.

"Things are going to get better," he said, "and now that Greg's home, maybe he'll realize that."

She nodded and went back to looking out the window. Teenagers passed by, laughing, shouting. Blythe wondered if any of them had every really been afraid. Or maybe they were all like Greg, and like John, and like herself -- she glanced across the table -- and like James too, she thought. Maybe they were all hiding something.

The waitress returned with their food and James smiled at her before he took a bite of his corned beef. Blythe wondered if knew how hard it was for her to leave.

"When Greg was nearly four, he decided he was old enough to go to the park on his own," Blythe said. She closed her eyes for a moment, focused her memory on Greg when he was just a boy: blue jeans and canvas tennis shoes, the straw cowboy hat he'd insisted on wearing every day for three months. For some reason she needed James to know this, to know that he understood how much she needed to trust him.

"Of course, he felt he didn't need to tell me this," she said, and opened her eyes to see James looking back at her. "I was doing the laundry, and when I turned around, he'd just ... disappeared."

She took a sip of her iced tea, then added more sugar to the glass, taking time to fix the memory in her mind.

"At first, I thought he'd gone to play in his room, but when I looked he wasn't there. Then I looked in the living room and he wasn't there either. He wasn't in the backyard, he wasn't in the driveway, he wasn't playing in the neighbor's yard." She shook her head. "I started calling his name, then I was yelling for him, and he never answered."

Blythe felt a faint reminder of that fear in her chest. "The neighbors couldn't find him, the police were out looking for him." She shook her head, then looked James in the eye. "Sometimes, it feels like that all over again. As if he's going to slip away the minute I turn my back."

She smiled slightly, trying to ignore her own fears that grew the closer she came to leaving. "In my head, I know that he's going to be all right," she said. "I know it's all right for me to leave. I know he's a grown man who doesn't need his mother looking after him. But sometimes ... sometimes deep in my heart I'm afraid that if I go back to California, if I take my eyes off him, that I'll never see him again."

James reached across the table and placed a hand on Blythe's own. "I'm not going to tell you not to worry," he said, "but remember that you've got me here keeping an eye on him for you, and Stacy too."

Blythe sighed and put her hand on top of James' hand.

"Besides," James said, with a smile, "I know something that could give you just what every mother needs -- eyes in the back of your head."

---------------

Wilson programmed House's number into Blythe's new cell phone. He added Stacy's office number to the memory, and Stacy's cell phone. He programmed his own numbers -- for work, for home, for his cell. He hesitated just a moment before adding House's office number, telling himself that House would be back to work. Maybe not soon, but someday.

He had bought the first phone and plan that caught his eye at the electronics store, and was in and out so quickly that Blythe was still nibbling at her sandwich when he returned to the restaurant. He slid the phone across the table to her.

"Now you can call him from anywhere," he said, "and he'll be able to call you."

"Thank you," she said, and smiled. "I imagine I'll be making most of the calls though."

Wilson smiled and nodded. He leaned back against the vinyl upholstery in the booth. He tried to relax and not think about how House would adjust, or if he ever would, or how much of the House that he'd known would remain. He tried to take the advice he always gave his patients -- to think about how far they'd come, not how far they still had to go.

He nodded to the waitress and ordered a piece of chocolate cake. "It's a celebration," he told Blythe. "Greg's home, so let's think positively. Besides, I won't have a chance to spoil you again for a while."

Blythe hesitated for just a moment, then ordered a piece of coconut cream pie.

She finished her sandwich before the dessert arrived and moved her plate to the edge of the table. Wilson waited as she took a drink of her sweet tea.

"So how did you find Greg back then when he disappeared?" he asked. "Did he just wander home by himself?"

Blythe shook her head. "John found him," she said. "He drove around the neighborhood for more than an hour and finally saw him at the park." She seemed lost in thought, and Wilson wondered how fresh the memories still were.

"Three other people had been by the park already, but they didn't find him," Blythe said. "John did. He was lying in the shade, taking a nap. John picked him up, brought him home, gave him a spanking and sent him to bed. Greg couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong. As far as he was concerned, he just went to the park, like he always did."

Wilson smiled. It was easy to picture House like that, stubbornly insisting he'd done nothing wrong. Some things never changed. "His father must have been furious," he said.

Blythe looked at him as if he didn't understand a word of anything she'd just said. "No," she said, and shook her head. "He was terrified."

The waitress arrived with the desserts and Wilson waited while she placed them on the table. Blythe spun her plate until the pie pointed towards her. She picked up her fork, but didn't take a bite.

"I've seen John before he was sent to Vietnam," she said when the waitress left. "I've seen him when he came home. I've seen him when he realized he had to send other men into conflict, knowing that not all of them would come home. And nothing and no one could ever scare him the way Greg could."

She pushed the fork down through layers of meringue and custard. Wilson waited out her silence.

"It's the reason John was always so hard on Greg." Blythe shook her head, still caught in memories. "He was afraid that if he didn't hold tight, if he wasn't strict -- too strict sometimes -- then Greg would never become who he was meant to be."

She looked up and stared Wilson in the eye, and he was reminded of the intense gaze House had when he was serious, when he knew something no one else did. "I'm not saying that John was perfect. He made mistakes. We both did. But John was never really angry with Greg. He just got ... he gets..." she corrected herself and smiled at some private thought, "he gets frustrated, and he'd get scared, and sometimes he could never see that his ways weren't always what Greg needed."

Blythe finally took a bite of her pie and Wilson tried to picture John House as he must have been then -- his stiff posture, his firm expression, his blunt words.

Instead all he could see was his own father, the way he'd tried to teach his sons about the the world in his quiet, patient voice. Never yelling, always waiting for them to discover the answers on their own. He thought about his missing brother, and wondered if his own father, on some quiet night, had ever questioned if his ways were always the best choice.

"You won't tell him, will you?" Blythe asked.

"No." Wilson shook his head. "It'll be our secret."


	4. When Stacy Left

Blythe stared at the piece of black plastic on her table. The numbers were still backlit from the call she'd just made. James had been right. She had been able to keep in touch. But she'd found that she still no idea what was going on.

She'd called at least five times during the weekend, each time leaving a message. She'd told herself not to panic, that maybe this meant that Greg and Stacy had gone out, that it must be good that Greg was away from the house more.

But Saturday slipped into Sunday and they hadn't called back. Sunday tumbled into Monday morning, and still nothing. She lay awake in bed, listening to John's snores, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about what might have happened. She told herself that James would have called if something bad happened.

She sat with John as he ate breakfast, and nodded when he assured her that everything was fine, that she was worked up over nothing. Finally she tried Greg's office, but he didn't answer there either. She finally got through to the department's secretary who said she'd seen him that morning. Blythe knew that should have made her feel better, but instead she worried about why he'd avoided her calls.

There was no answer at Stacy's office, and when she finally got Stacy on her cell, she didn't find any peace.

"You should talk to Greg," Stacy said.

"Stacy, what's going on? Is Greg all right?," Blythe had asked, holding the phone closer to her ear. "Please, tell me."

She heard Stacy take a deep breath on the other side of the line, on the other side of the country. "He was fine when I saw him," she finally said. "Maybe he'll have something to say to you when you finally reach him."

Blythe let the phone sit on the table while she filled her coffee cup again. She stared at the phone, black with silver trim, a high technology contrast to the white lace tablecloth she'd bought in Greece, when Greg was still just a little boy.

Stacy had a tablecloth like it, one of her mother's heirlooms. Blythe remembered seeing it the last time they'd been in Princeton, when Greg and Stacy barely seemed to speak to each other, when even James hadn't been able to smooth out the rough edges of Greg's mood.

The few times she overheard Greg and Stacy's conversations, the words were harsh, and she wondered what had happened that led to those arguments, and what came after. She followed those thoughts until she could guess what must have happened now. Blythe put her mug down on the tablecloth. She wondered if Stacy had taken her lace keepsakes with her when she packed.

Blythe picked up the phone, scrolled through the numbers in the memory and made another call.

She listened to the ring at the other end, and told herself that she wasn't going behind Greg's back. She just needed answers, and if Greg wasn't going to provide them, then ...

"This is James Wilson." Blythe smiled to hear his voice.

"James, good morning," she said. "This is Blythe. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

He hesitated for just a moment before he answered. "Of course not," he said. "How are you?"

Blythe closed her eyes, decided to get to the point. "Worried," she said. "Greg wasn't answering his phone this weekend, and Stacy won't give me a straight answer."

He didn't say anything for a moment. She heard the squeak of furniture and she could picture him in his office -- his white coat, clean white shirt, a dark tie hanging loosely from his collar -- as he leaned back in his desk chair.

"You should really talk to Greg," he finally said. "I'll track him down and have him call you."

Blythe felt her frustration build. "James, just ... just tell me," she said. "Did Stacy leave?"

James was silent for a few moments, then sighed. "Yes," he said. "How did you know?"

"Mother's intuition," Blythe said. She had hoped to keep her tone light, but her words sounded hollow even to her own ears. "When?"

"Friday," James said. "She moved into her mother's old place."

Blythe had never been there, but had a snapshot that had been taken there -- Greg on the porch, smiling in the sun, the ocean filling the horizon behind him. James had taken the photo, and Blythe often wondered what he'd said that made Greg laugh, let him look so happy in that moment.

"How's Greg?" Blythe asked.

She heard the chair squeak again as James moved. "I won't lie and tell you everything's fine," he said, "but he's doing better than I'd expected."

"But worse that you'd hoped?"

Blythe took his silence as his answer.

"John and I were going to come out to visit in a couple of weeks," she said. "We could come earlier."

"No," James said. "I don't think you need to do that ..."

"I know we don't need to."

"I think," he said, then seemed to collect his thoughts. "I think he needs some time." Blythe heard him shift again. "I know you want to be here, but I'm not sure he's ready to deal with any ... company just now."

Blythe felt sorrow replace the worry she'd been feeling earlier. She wondered if it was possible for her own heart to break in sympathy with the way Greg must be feeling.

"I'll talk to him, get him to call you," James was saying. "If you still want to come after you talk, let me know. I'll make sure he's ... presentable."

Blythe looked down at the lace tablecloth again, traced the shapes against the dark wood of the table. "No, that's all right," she said. "I trust you, James."

"All right. I'll track him down, try to get him to call you soon," James said. She could hear him moving again. "If you don't hear from him by tonight, let me know. I'll get him to call if I have to dial the phone myself."

Blythe smiled a little at that. "And how are you going to get him to talk?"

"Give me time, I'll think of something," he said, and Blythe giggled for just a moment to think of the number of times she had tried to think of some way to get Greg to be quiet.

"All right," she said. "Tell him I'll have my phone with me, so he can call anytime. And James?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," she said. "Again."

--------------

John House answered the door to his son's home, and held out his hand to shake Wilson's as he stepped inside.

"Good to see you," he said.

Wilson nodded. "You're early," he said.

"Tailwind," the Colonel said.

Wilson looked across the room and into the kitchen. He could see House leaning against the butcher block table, shaking his head. Blythe crossed the kitchen between them, pen and paper in her hand.

"Wilson, tell her I'm not starving to death," House called across the rooms.

"If you're smart, you'll stay out of this one," the Colonel muttered to him, and sat on the couch.

"You've lost weight," Blythe was saying to House, "and you don't have any food in the house at all."

Wilson walked up to the kitchen, but stopped at the entrance and leaned against the door frame. Blythe had a cupboard door open, and he could see a few cans of something inside -- vegetables, if he remembered the way Stacy had the kitchen stocked.

"I don't have food because I've been eating it," House was saying.

Wilson didn't comment. Blythe was right, House had lost more weight since Stacy left. Not much, but on top of what he'd lost after the infarction, it added up. He'd noticed the change in the past few weeks, and he could only imagine how surprised Blythe must have been to see him. He wondered if he should have warned her.

Blythe turned from the cupboard to look at House. She narrowed her eyes, and House sighed and looked away.

Wilson smiled. He was glad he hadn't said anything to Blythe. This looked like it could be interesting. Besides, maybe Blythe could make an impact when he couldn't

"It's not nice to lie to your mother, Greg," she said, and House slumped back against the counter. "Have you eating anything besides sandwiches?"

"I like sandwiches," House said. He bounced the tip of his cane against the floor.

"You're a doctor, you know better," she said. Blythe walked across to the butcher block and wrote a few things on the paper. Wilson wasn't close enough to see the details, but could make out two rows of neat handwriting.

"And you're not helping," she said, turning to Wilson. "What, you couldn't get him to take care of himself?"

Wilson opened his mouth to apologize, but wasn't sure what he was supposed to say.

"Warned you," the Colonel mumbled from the couch.

House smiled and nodded. "Some friend you are," he said.

"Don't try to blame him," Blythe said, turning her attention back on her son. "I'm sure James did everything he could, but you were just too stubborn."

She turned away from both of them and took her note over to the refrigerator. As she peered inside House caught Wilson's eye.

"You should see her when she really gets angry," he said, and Wilson grinned.

"I am angry," Blythe said without looking at either of them.

House shook his head. Wilson noticed he appeared more at ease than he had for weeks. The haunted look that had been in his eyes was gone.

"You're out of milk."

"Just finished it off this morning," House said.

Blythe turned and looked at him.

"Yesterday morning," House said, and winced. "Maybe a day or two before that? I didn't really notice."

Blythe closed the refrigerator and went back to the table. She wrote a few more things down on the right side of the list.

"You don't need to do my grocery shopping for me," House said.

"I do if I'm going to make you some things to eat other than dry cereal and peanut butter," she said.

"Mom," House protested, but Blythe stepped up to him.

"It's called comfort food for a reason, Greg," she said, softly. "Let me do this for you, please?"

House shrugged, and Blythe smiled.

"Good," she said. "And I'm not shopping, your father is."

Blythe picked up her list and handed it to Wilson. "Can you give him a hand?"

Wilson took the list. He glanced up at House, who just gave another shrug. He looked at Blythe. "Please," she whispered, the tone only slightly different from what she'd used on House. Wilson was pretty sure she wanted the time alone with her son more than the groceries.

"Sure." Maybe Blythe could get House at least to admit that he missed Stacy. He had refused to say anything beyond a few angry shouts so far.

Wilson took one look at Blythe's list and decided to head over to the supermarket on Fifth. Things could be pricier there, but they'd have everything she asked for. He studied the items again as the Colonel got a cart: Greek cheese, Asian spices, Italian olives. He wondered how much Blythe had adapted her cooking style over the years to match both her son's tastes and their family's travels.

"Good, she's making peach pie." the Colonel looked at the list over Wilson's shoulder. "It was her mother's recipe, but Blythe's is better."

They started down the aisles, Wilson checking off each item as they put it in the basket, the Colonel directing him on which brands Blythe preferred.

"Sometimes I go shopping with her," he said, and smiled a little. Wilson was reminded of the quiet grin that House would sometimes have when he was lost in thought. "It gives us a chance to spend time together, and I don't have to make any decisions."

Wilson handed over the list and let the Colonel take over.

He pushed the cart and the Colonel talked a little about the trip as they made their way along the aisles. He kept up a steady flow of easy conversation, about spring training -- he followed Cleveland, he said -- about the weather back in California, about how Blythe liked to find some plot of dirt to plant a few flowers, no matter where they were housed.

He watched as Wilson put a bag of potato chips in the cart. They weren't on the list, but Wilson knew House liked them.

"I never liked Stacy," the Colonel suddenly said, and Wilson turned to look at him. He wondered if there was a reason why he'd decided to make that particular announcement in the frozen foods aisle.

"She was always passing judgment on people," he continued. Wilson thought to himself that the Colonel did the same thing, but didn't say anything. "She never thought I was good enough for Greg, which I didn't mind so much, but I got the idea that she never thought Blythe was good enough for him either, and I couldn't stand that."

The Colonel rounded the end of the aisle, past the ice cream and the frozen pizza and Wilson followed him. The Colonel stopped in front of the beer cooler, and reached in for a six-pack of Coors. Wilson found himself thinking that House didn't like the brand, but then he reached in again and pulled out a six-pack of Heineken.

"Stacy was selfish, and stuck up," the Colonel said.

He put both six packs of beer on the bottom of the cart, then turned toward Wilson.

"But she saved Greg's life, when he was too stubborn to save himself," he said. "And I'll always be grateful to her for that. Maybe you could thank her for me, if you ever hear from her."

Wilson nodded. "I will," he promised.

The cart was overflowing by the time they made it past the dairy case and into line for the cashier. Wilson hoped that Blythe was having some success back at the apartment, and that he wouldn't end up throwing half of the groceries out a month from now, when House fell back into bad habits.

The Colonel pulled out his wallet before Wilson could move to pay for anything. "I've got it," he said, and peeled off a couple of fifty dollar bills and a few twenties to cover the bill.

The bags filled the trunk, and Wilson had to shift some emergency supplies to fit everything into the space. He finally slammed down the lid.

"That everything?" The Colonel checked Blythe's list and nodded.

Wilson unlocked the doors and they both climbed in.

"You're a good friend, Wilson," the Colonel said, before Wilson turned the ignition key.

Wilson sat back. "So is Greg," he said.

"Good," the Colonel said. "I'm glad to hear that."

He was quiet again, so Wilson started the car and backed out his parking space. He guessed it was the closest to a compliment that the man would ever give, though he wasn't sure what he was supposed to make of it.

"I'm not going to pretend that I understand my son," the Colonel said, as they pulled onto the main street. "Maybe I never have. Guess I never will."

"He's not easy to get to know," Wilson said.

"His mother's always understood him. Maybe I missed too much when he was growing up." The Colonel turned to Wilson. "But knowing that he's got a friend like you, makes me think that maybe I didn't screw everything up with him."

Wilson weighed the few things House had told him about his father, and compared them to what he'd seen of the man himself. He still wasn't sure what to think of John House. He shrugged and turned onto House's street.

"Maybe," he said, "maybe things aren't as screwed up as you think."


	5. When John and Blythe Moved

House didn't knock, just pushed open the door to Wilson's office and stood there, leaning against the door frame.

Wilson kept reading the lab reports in Sarah Peters' file. "I could have been with a patient," he said.

"But you weren't," House pointed out.

"But I could have been."

"But you weren't."

Wilson put a finger on the page to mark his place and looked up. "Did I somehow miss the start of this conversation or are you just wandering around opening random doors?"

"Just yours," House said. "And I finished off the lasagna last night."

Wilson blinked, looked down at his desk, then back at House again. "Am I going to need a map to follow this conversation?"

"Depends," House said. "When my Mom calls, you can tell her that I told you I ate the last of her lasagna from the freezer."

"Did you?"

"You're missing the point."

"There's a point?" Wilson closed his eyes and rubbed them. When he opened them again, House was still there.

"My mother bugs me about what I've been eating, and I avoid the question. Then she calls you and you tell her that I told you that I had the lasagna. That way neither of us tells a lie, she doesn't figure out that anyone's telling a lie and everyone's happy. See how that works?"

"Not even remotely," Wilson said.

"I'll explain the details later," House said. He closed the door as the phone rang, then leaned back in. "Oh, and tell her that the fifteenth will be fine."

The door closed again and Wilson stared at the oak paneling. The phone rang a third time and he picked it up.

"This is James Wilson."

"Hello, James, it's Blythe, am I calling at a bad time?"

Wilson shook his head and wondered if House had told his mother when to call, or just guessed when she would.

"James?"

"Sorry, I'm here," he said. "I was just ... finishing up something."

"I can call back."

"No, no, you're fine. How are you?"

"Fine, we're both fine."

Each conversation began the same way, sometimes once a week, sometimes twice. Her calls would usually come through on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, with the occasional Monday if House hadn't felt like answering the phone over the weekend. The phone would ring, Blythe would apologize for interrupting him, and he'd assure her everything was fine.

Some days she would seem at ease, happy, laughing at some joke House had made at his expense. Other days she was anxious, skipping directly from the opening pleasantries to voicing some concern. Usually she was right, and there was something wrong.

"How did you know?" Wilson asked one spring day as a cold front and thunderstorms were fighting their way across the state, and House had called in sick, in too much pain to even deal with the walk to his car.

"He was quiet when I talked to him," Blythe had said. "Greg is never quiet."

Wilson thought that she must be wrong. He'd seen House stew for hours when he was working out some puzzle, but he watched more closely after that. Blythe was right. There was an entirely different kind of silence as well, one that was its own early warning system to whatever was going on inside him.

And that silence didn't just signal pain. House had been telling a story in the cafeteria one day, mocking some patient, when a nurse stopped at his table. She'd smiled, told House he was looking better, and that she was happy for him. Wilson remembered seeing her in the ICU, monitoring House's vitals.

House looked down at his tray. "Thanks," was all he said. Wilson never heard the end of the story.

"He does the same thing when he's upset with his father," Blythe had said. "He just ... won't say a thing."

Wilson realized Blythe had asked him a question, and he snapped himself out of his memories.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I really have caught you at a bad time, haven't I?"

"No, really. I'm done with everything now. You have my undivided attention."

Blythe laughed. "It was nothing important. I was just wondering if you had dinner with Greg last night."

"No," Wilson said. "But he told me he had the lasagna."

She laughed again. He was glad to hear her in a good mood. Too often lately she had seemed anxious when she called. "I still don't know whether to believe him, but I'm sure that's what he told you."

Wilson smiled. "So are you two still coming for a visit next week?"

"Actually, no. We'll be busy packing. John got his transfer."

"To Quantico?"

"We'll be there by the fifth," she said.

Wilson remembered House's comment about the fifteenth. "So were you planning on coming up for a visit after you get settled in?"

"That's one of the reasons I called," Blythe said. "Feel free to tell me if it's not a good idea, but I was wondering if it might be possible for you and Greg to come down to Virginia for a day."

"Um," Wilson opened his calendar.

"It's silly, I know, but there's a restaurant that I loved when we were there before, and our anniversary is coming up ..."

"Congratulations," Wilson said. "How many years?"

"It'll be forty-three -- and please, James, I'm not angling for a gift."

"I didn't think you were," he said.

She laughed again. "No, of course not. I'm just asking you to give up an entire day to make an old woman happy."

Wilson flipped his calendar to the middle of the next month. He wasn't surprised to see which day was free. "How about the fifteenth?"

They took the train south to Washington, then picked up a rental car.

"It'll be easier that way," House said. "Besides, it's harder to storm out after an argument with my Dad when I have to wait for a bus."

Wilson was pretty sure that House had fumed at a bus stop more than once.

They were still ten miles outside of Quantico when House ordered Wilson to pull over at a rest stop. Wilson watched him slowly ease his leg out onto the ground and heard the rattle of pills before House finally pushed himself up and out of the small car. Wilson watched as he took slow, silent laps around the parking lot. He wondered how bad the trip back to Princeton would be.

He was quiet as Wilson followed the signs leading to the base.

"It's different in there," House finally said as they waited for traffic outside the main gate. "He'll be different," he said. He turned toward Wilson. "He's not who he'd like you to think he is."

Wilson shrugged. "Who is?"

He pulled forward and waited for the guard to clear them. "So why did you agree to come?"

"So you'd know," House said, and the guard waved them through.

House directed him to take a right at the statue of the flag raising on Iwo Jima, then down past rows of buildings. They could have been offices or storage buildings or barracks for all Wilson could tell. They all looked the same: the same red brick, the same number of windows, the same door at the center of each building.

The landscape eased a bit as they turned from the main road toward family housing -- the concrete making way for green lawns and shrubs, even the occasional playground.

He trusted House's directions. He would have been lost. The houses all looked the same, just different colored variations on the same bland theme.

Blythe stepped out onto the porch as they pulled up in front of a blue house and met them halfway across the yard.

"Sorry we're late," House said, and gave her a hug. "It's Wilson's fault."

"A likely story," Blythe said, and she gave Wilson a quick hug too.

They walked slowly up to the door, and Wilson saw House hesitate as they approached the front steps, but only for a moment. He wondered if Blythe noticed, but then saw in her eyes that she had.

House wasn't watching for her reaction. He had one hand on his cane, the other on the railing and his eyes focused on the concrete as he pulled himself up each of the two steps. Blythe stood next to the screen door, holding it open for him. Wilson followed them inside.

The furniture was plain, but looked comfortable. There were a few photos on the wall -- one of House and his father when House was maybe ten years old, another a portrait of all three of them taken a few years later, Blythe smiling, her husband serious and her son with an expression that Wilson recognized as frustration.

"I don't have very many photos with all of us together," Blythe said, and Wilson looked over to see her looking at the photo as well.

Wilson heard a noise from somewhere in the back of the house, recognized John House's voice.

"John had to take a call," she said, turning away to look at him then her son. "Something about setting up some meetings next week."

Wilson nodded and looked around some more. "You're all unpacked?"

"It's easy after the first fifteen moves," House said, and Blythe smiled and nodded.

There was an afghan spread across the back of the couch, and he wondered if Blythe had knitted it. The bookshelves held volumes on military history, travel writings and a few novels, mostly classics: Mark Twain, Shakespeare, Jane Austen... Wilson tried to imagine House as a boy, reading the volume of Poe's short stories or following Holmes onto the moors.

He heard steps in the hallway and turned as the Colonel walked into the living room.

"You finally made it, I see," he said.

Wilson found himself staring at the man. He'd met John House plenty of times, seen him in restaurants, in the hospital, in hotels and at House's place. This man somehow seemed to be different, and Wilson realized he'd never seen him in uniform. Each button stood out against the olive-green fabric, the metal buckle gleamed and his shoes had a perfect coat of polish. There were rows of ribbons on his jacket -- the only splash of color -- and he stood tall. He seemed to take up more space, seemed to absorb more light.

"I'm glad we didn't make early reservations," he said, and Wilson thought that even his words had a harsher edge. Wilson wondered if the man really did carry himself differently, or if it was just his own perception of him that had changed.

This was a man who was at home in a world with rules and regulations, he realized, always knowing the way things should be -- the way they had to be. He tried to picture House living in that world, but came up short. Wilson wondered if the man he had met every other time was the real John House, or if that had been a civilian disguise, and this was the real one. He looked over at House, who caught his eye and nodded slightly.

"John, don't complain after they've come all this way," Blythe said.

"I'm not complaining," the Colonel said. "Just stating facts."

Wilson tried to remember everything that House had ever told him about his father, and then pictured this version of John House in those stories, rather than the one he'd known before. Somehow every image he'd had shifted, became something different, even if none of the words changed.

"You were complaining," Blythe teased, and touched his arm. It was only when she stood next to him that he relaxed, softened. It was the only time Wilson recognized the man he thought he'd known.

"You got some new jewelry," House said, and Wilson turned as he saw House motion toward his father's uniform.

Blythe brushed her fingers across the silver eagles on his collar. "The promotion came with the transfer," she said, and smiled. "He thought you wouldn't notice, but I told him you would." Wilson wasn't sure whether she was more proud of her husband or her son. He looked back and forth between all three of them.

"I thought you already were a colonel," Wilson said.

"Lieutenant colonel," House explained. "He's a bird colonel now."

"A suitable rank for a man being pushed toward retirement," the Colonel mumbled, and Blythe touched his arm.

"Nobody's pushing you," she said. "Whenever you're ready is fine by me." She smiled, and the Colonel took her hand, seemed to ease once more toward into the civilian that Wilson recognized.

-------------

John and Greg sat side-by-side in the front seat of the car as John drove them off the base and to the restaurant. Neither of them spoke to each other. James was quiet too, just staring ahead of him, though all he could see was the back of John's head. Blythe wondered what he was thinking about.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "I know you must have had other things to do."

James looked over at her and nodded. "It's all right. It's been an ... interesting trip." He went back to watching the road over John's shoulder.

John pointed out his office as they drove by and James turned to look at it, three stories high and brick with white trim, looking like so many of the other buildings on this part of the base. Blythe noticed his foot was tapping on the floorboards as they drove.

"So, when is the wedding?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you have more than one coming up?"

James finally smiled. "In three weeks," he said.

"You're nervous," she said, though it was just a guess at what was on his mind.

"Not about the wedding," James said, though he still seemed distracted. "We're keeping it small. Just ..." He stared out the front window again for a moment, then turned back to her, ignoring whatever had been on his mind before. "I'm sure Greg has told you that I've been married before."

Blythe nodded, remembering a few comments. "I thought he was joking," she said.

"Afraid not," James smiled. "This will be my third. Third time's a charm, right?"

Blythe tried to hide her surprise. It didn't work. James chuckled when she stared at him.

"I know," he said. "I'm surprised Julie ever agreed to go out with me in the first place."

"You must have been just a child when you first got married," Blythe said. She wondered if he'd gotten married too young, maybe he hadn't been ready.

"I was twenty-two," he said. "How old were you?"

"Twenty-one," Blythe said. "John was twenty-three. But things were different then."

James shook his head. "I thought I was ready. We both did. I guess I wasn't."

Blythe thought about how young James must have been then. How young she had been then. "I'm sure it wasn't your fault."

James shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "It was."

He turned and looked out the window again, watching as they passed out of the gates, out onto the main road. Blythe took the opportunity to study him. Sometimes she had imagined that James was the second child she'd never been able to have, the brother Greg needed.

Even John liked him, had asked about him after their calls, calling him "Wilson," because that's what Greg called him. "He must like it," he'd said after Blythe tried to correct him.

She wondered now if all the time he'd spent with Greg during the past year had nothing to do with being a good friend. Maybe it was just because he was lonely. Maybe, once the wedding was over, now that Greg was doing better, he'd drift away.

Blythe looked over at him. No, she thought. That wouldn't happen.

"I don't believe you," she said, keeping her voice soft. She didn't want John to overhear, because she wasn't sure what he would think. There would be time to tell him later, when she had time to explain. After she understood it herself. "I'm sure whatever you did, it wasn't that bad."

"It was bad enough," he said. "I haven't always been who I'd like people to think I am." He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, then turned toward her with a sad smile. "Maybe I should ask you for advice."

Blythe placed a hand on his arm. "Every marriage is different," she said. "Every marriage has its own problems and its own solutions, but I'm sure you already know that."

"So there's no magic formula."

"All I can tell you is that I believe that years from now, you'll be having your own anniversary, and you'll wonder why it was you were so nervous."

"I wish it was that easy."

"It won't be," Blythe said, "but I believe it'll happen."

James shook his head. "How can you? You don't know how much I've screwed things up before."

Blythe smiled at him. "No, I don't," she said. "And I don't need to know. I know you, James."

He looked at her for a moment, then out the window. She barely heard him over the sound of the road passing under the car tires. "Maybe nobody knows anyone."


	6. When Blythe Didn't Meet Julie

Blythe wasn't sure about what she'd just heard.

"Greg," she asked, "did you just invite me to come for a visit?"

She heard a sigh from the other end of the phone line. "I told Wilson this was going to happen."

"You told him that what was going to happen?"

"This," Greg said. "I told him you'd make it into a thing."

"I'm not making anything into anything, honey." Blythe said. "I just wanted to make sure that you wanted me to come."

"Of course I want you to come." She could hear a steady thumping in the background as Greg spoke, but couldn't tell what it was. "That's why I brought it up."

Blythe had been strangely surprised that Greg had actually called her in the first place, rather than waiting for her to call. And when she mentioned that John would be out of town for a few days -- at a training facility in Texas -- he'd surprised her again, telling her that maybe she should come up.

"If you want," he'd said. "Or were you going to go with him?"

"No, I'm not going," Blythe had said. "He'll only be there for a few days, and he'll have meetings the entire time."

"So you could come," he'd said. "If you want to, that is," he repeated.

Truthfully, she had been thinking about coming for a visit, but hadn't mentioned it yet. She had been traveling north every other week or so, usually staying just long enough for lunch and to see for herself that Greg was all right. She had worried that she would wear out her welcome.

"A grown man doesn't want his mother hovering over him," she'd told James during one visit when they were waiting for Greg.

"Ninety minutes every few weeks doesn't count as hovering," James had said. "And he'll deny it if you ask him, but I think he actually enjoys it a little."

She'd smiled. "I don't want to accuse you of telling a fib, James, but I appreciate hearing it even if it isn't true."

James held up one hand. "I'm not lying," he'd said. "Scout's honor."

And now Greg had even said so himself. In his own way.

"Or don't come. Whatever." Blythe could hear the tapping sound in the background again. It reminded her of when Greg was a boy, and he'd toss a tennis ball against the side of the house, throwing and catching, again and again and again. The sound of the thump, thump, thump, used to drive John mad, so Greg always made sure to do it only when John wasn't home.

"I was just thinking that if you were coming, you could always stay overnight," Greg said. "We could go out for dinner or something instead of just a quick lunch between trains."

Blythe caught an image of herself in the hall mirror, a wide smile on her face. "I'd love that," she said. "Is there a special reason? It's not your birthday and it's not my birthday." She suddenly thought that she didn't know when James' birthday was. She should ask.

"No, it's just ..." Greg was silent for a moment. Even the tapping sound stopped. "It's stupid," he said.

"I'm sure it isn't."

She could hear him take a deep breath on the other end of the line and could picture the look on his face, wincing as he realized he would have to admit the truth.

"There's a new restaurant in town," he finally said. Now even his voice seemed quieter. "I thought maybe you might like some kakuni."

Blythe's mouth watered just at the thought of kakuni, the rich flavors of the stew, the tender pork that had simmered for hours or even days before it was served. "I don't think I've had that since ..."

"Okinawa," Greg said. "I know Dad would never agree to go, so I thought maybe you'd like to take advantage of it while he's gone."

Blythe had eaten kakuni only a few times even while they were in Japan. John had never liked being stationed there. He preferred to spend all of his time on the base. Everything outside the gates only seemed to remind him of the war of their childhood, the one when his brother had died over the Pacific. Greg was right. He'd never agree to go to a Japanese restaurant.

"That sounds like a perfect idea," she said.

"Good," he said. She heard the tapping sound begin again. "Great."

She took an afternoon train north and James met her at the station.

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," she said. "I could have taken a cab."

James took her overnight bag from her hand. "I don't mind," he said. "Besides, your son asked me to pick you up."

"You could have told him that you were busy."

James laughed a little. "I've tried, but that never seems to work," he said. He opened the door to his car for her, and waited for her to settle in, before closing it. He walked around to his side of the car, put her bag on the back seat, then climbed behind the wheel.

"I hope you don't feel like Greg is taking advantage of you," Blythe said. James had been married for more than four months now, she still worried that he'd drift away.

Greg had seen too many friends leave, and left too many behind. When he was very small -- before he'd even started school -- he'd cry when he found out that the father of a friend had received new orders. When he was a little older, he'd hide when the moving van showed up down the street. Finally he just pretended he didn't care at all. Then he pretended he didn't want friends at all.

Blythe worried that Greg was doing the same thing now, pretending everything was fine whenever she saw him. But James was still there, and Greg didn't seem to be holding anything back.

"And what does your wife think of Greg taking up all your free time?"

She couldn't catch James' expression as he turned away from her to watch traffic over his shoulder, but could hear him laugh softly. He pulled out onto the street, then turned right, toward the hospital. "Sorry," he said. "It's just ..." he said, then laughed again. "Julie has started calling him my hobby. She keeps joking that at least he's not as dangerous as skydiving or as boring as bird watching."

Blythe turned to look out the window as the blocks rolled by. She thought of John's hobbies over the years -- the telescope that he used to try and follow the space race, the replica Union Army uniform and books he bought after they visited Gettysburg, the box filled with canceled stamps, the baseball caps from minor league teams, even the golf clubs in the closet -- hobbies that took so much of his time that she grew to hate them long before he'd abandoned them in favor of something new and different.

Outside the car the city sidewalks gave way to the open green spaces of the campus.

Hobbies were good, she thought to herself. But hobbies don't last.

"Maybe you'll meet her tonight," James was saying, and she turned to look over at him again.

"Maybe?" Blythe asked.

James nodded. He was squinting in the late afternoon sun and flipped the visor down to block the glare. "We were supposed to have dinner with her parents, but when I told her you were coming, she said she'd try to change our plans."

Blythe shook her head. "James, it's important to keep the in-laws happy," she said.

"Oh, it's nothing special," he said. "They're in town. We can see them anytime."

"But you had plans."

James shook his head. "It'll be fine," he insisted. "Don't worry."

Blythe had asked Greg send her a photo from the wedding. He sent her a dozen, a collection that showed an elbow here, an ear there, a high heeled shoe, a bit of the veil and Julie's blonde hair. "Put them together to get the whole picture," he'd written.

But at the bottom of the pile was one simple shot of James and Julie, deep in conversation and obviously deep in love, their faces nearly touching. They looked happy and beautiful, as if they could have stepped out of a fairy tale wedding.

"You'll like Julie," James said, and glanced over at her as he pulled into the left turn lane.

He smiled, and Blythe thought the light in his eyes seemed brighter just to say her name. She found herself wondering if he'd had the same light for his other wives. For the ones who didn't stay.

She turned and looked out the window again. Maybe it was the marriages that were his hobbies, and not Greg.

Blythe glanced down at the ring on her finger and shook her head. No. Marriage is important. Vows are important. James knew that.

She looked over at him again, watching as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. Maybe he was right. Maybe Julie didn't resent his time with Greg, and Lord knew it did Greg good to have James around. Maybe she was worrying for nothing.

Or maybe, she thought as he pulled into an empty space, maybe she was worried about the wrong thing. Maybe she was just being selfish on Greg's behalf. Maybe Greg wasn't good for James.

------------

Wilson wasn't sure if something was wrong with Blythe. Everything had seemed normal at the station. She was happy and relaxed, joking with him about House. But she grew quiet somewhere between there and the hospital, and he couldn't place exactly when or why.

"I didn't even ask," he said, before they got out of his car. "Did you want to go to the hotel first? Take a break?"

She smiled, shook her head. "No, this is fine," she said. "Unless that would be better for you?"

"I've got some things to finish up," he said. "I'll walk you up to Greg's office, though, if you want."

"Nonsense. I know my way around. I don't want to keep you from anything important."

Wilson wanted to object, but something about her tone of voice told him she didn't want or expect any arguments. He nearly laughed when he realized it was the same tone his mother had used on him, the one Blythe must have used to prod House hundreds of times -- thousands of times.

"Let me just get my bag," she said, but Wilson shook his head.

"I've got Greg's keys," he said. "I'll put it in his car, then you won't have to haul it across the building."

She seemed like she was ready to argue again, but then nodded. "Then I hope I'll see both of you tonight," she said. "But if you can't make it, that's fine. I'll stop and see you in the morning before I leave." She put a hand on his arm. "Don't neglect your wife on our behalf."

Wilson wasn't sure what she meant by that, but she turned and walked away before he could ask. He took Blythe's bag out of his car, and took it over to the handicap parking spots near the elevator and unlocked the car door with the spare key House had given him, storing the suitcase on the back seat.

House's car was gone when he left nearly two hours later.

Julie's car was in the driveway when he got home and he parked next to it.

Her shoes were by the door, her purse in the kitchen, her jacket hung from the closet doorknob. He followed the sound of her voice from there to the bedroom.

"You're late," she said.

Wilson didn't argue the point. "Paperwork."

Julie pointed toward the bed, where she'd placed some casual clothes for him. "You should wear the sweater my Mom gave you," she said. She was putting on earrings that her mother had given her at their engagement party, so he guessed she had made up her mind.

"You still want to have dinner with your folks?"

She nodded. "I thought that was the plan," she said, "or were you still thinking about going with Greg and his mother?"

He shrugged and walked into the closet. He toed off his shoes, then put them neatly on the shoe rack on his side. "I'd like to go with them," he called out to her. "We can see your parents anytime." He took off his suit coat and hung it carefully on the hangar. He pulled off his tie and put it in a drawer with the others. "You'd like Blythe," he said.

"So she must really be different than her son then." Julie was standing just inside the closet. She smiled and put up her hands. "Joking," she said. "I'm joking."

He smiled and chuckled, but thought about how she was always making jokes at House's expense.

"Tell you what." Julie walked up to Wilson, put her arms around him. He wrapped her arms around her too, pulled her close. "I'll see my Mom, you can see Greg's Mom. It's not as if we're attached at the hip."

Wilson smiled and pulled her closer. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said, with a laugh. "About both things -- that you should go to dinner with Greg, and that we're not actually attached at the hip." She leaned in to kiss him. "Although that last part sounds intriguing."

House and Blythe were already at the table when Wilson got there. House had a sake glass in front of him, Blythe a glass of white wine.

"You're late," House said, as Wilson pulled out one of the two empty chairs. "And alone."

Wilson nodded. "Julie decided to eat with her parents tonight," he said. He looked up and saw House leaning forward, one finger pointing toward Wilson, his mouth already open. "Don't say it," Wilson warned.

"Say what?" House asked.

Wilson looked over at Blythe. who was looking at him. John House's eyes shared the intensity of his son's. Blythe's gaze was soft, but somehow she seemed to be able to see somewhere deep inside him.

"Nothing," Wilson said. He picked up the menu.

"Do you really think I'd be so insensitive to ask if the honeymoon was over already?" House teased. "If there was trouble in paradise? If ..."

"Greg." Blythe kept her voice quiet, and said only the one word. She put a hand on House's arm, just as Wilson had seen her do with her husband. Wilson wondered how often she had done that over the years, and if it was a skill he could learn.

House shook his head and sat back, and Blythe turned to Wilson. "James, you don't need to keep us company." She smiled at him. "I'm sure Greg and I can manage to get along without a chaperone."

"Everything's fine," he told her. She continued to study him. "Really. It was Julie's idea."

Blythe finally nodded, but Wilson wasn't convinced that she was happy with his answer. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say that would reassure her. He opened his menu.

"So you're the experts," he said. "Tell me what I should order."

Wilson let House take the lead during the dinner conversation, listening to familiar stories about the hospital and new ones Blythe told about their time in Japan, then in Greece, then hearing those mixed in with something that happened in California, or Florida or Egypt or Italy.

Her stories were always sweet, always loving, usually funny. Sometimes House would object, saying that she was ruining his reputation. Wilson loved them. They gave him a glimpse of a House that he would never know.

Blythe rarely told them when the Colonel was with them. And, Wilson realized, the Colonel rarely made an appearance in any of her stories either. Not these ones, anyway. Not the happy ones, that ones that made House smile.

He wondered if House and his father shared any happy memories.

Blythe had finished her wine and was sipping tea when House excused himself to use the bathroom. He had barely left the table when Blythe turned to him.

"You could always join your wife for dessert," she said. "I won't mind."

Wilson smiled. "Why is it I have the feeling you're trying to get rid of me?"

"I'm not," she said.

Blythe took a drink of her tea and circled the top of her cup with her fingers, tracing its shape around and around. Without House there she had gone quiet again, and Wilson still wasn't sure why. She hadn't been like that since the early days after the infarction, when she was still trying to figure out how badly her son was injured, how much he hurt, and how much he would need her.

Maybe she still was.

Then Blythe touched Wilson's arm like she had touched House's earlier, a slight pressure he felt through the layers of his sweater and shirt sleeve. "James, you once asked me if I had any advice for you in your marriage," she said. Blythe smiled and her fingers tightened slightly on his arm. Wilson could see how it was that both House and his father had learned to recognize the emotion behind that touch, how she used it to punctuate her words.

"I know you care about Greg, and I love you for it," Blythe said. "And I love Greg, but Greg can be ..." She stared across the table, toward the bathrooms for a moment, then turned back to him. "Greg can be difficult. Don't let him steal all your time. You owe it to yourself and your wife and your marriage to make time for her as well."

Wilson shook his head. "Greg isn't stealing anything," he said. "I spend time with Greg because I enjoy spending time with him." He smiled. "And I enjoy spending time with you too."

"I know," she said. "And I know that you promised me you'd keep an eye on Greg for me, just ... just keep an eye out for yourself as well, all right?" She gave his arm another soft squeeze.

Wilson looked down at her hand. She left it there, making soft contact, as if she was willing him to understand what she wanted, but he wasn't sure if he did understand. It wasn't what he'd expected to hear -- not from her. He was sure she meant it, but he wasn't sure why.

He looked away for a moment. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised. Blythe was sometimes as difficult to predict as House. Every time Wilson thought he knew what she'd do, she'd do the opposite.

Like now.

Wilson looked back at her, put his hand on hers, still uncertain what she really wanted, or what she wanted to hear him say. "I'll think about what you said," he finally promised. "I'll try."

"You'll try what?" House pulled out his chair and sat. He hung his cane from the arm of the vacant chair that would have been Julie's seat.

Blythe finally took her hand from Wilson's arm. She turned back to her tea, quiet again.

Wilson turned to House. "Your mother was just telling me that I should try to make you pay," he said. "I thought it sounded like a great idea."


	7. When Days Were Bad

Wilson stood in the doorway and watched as House eased himself down onto the bed -- one hand on the mattress, the other on his cane, gripping it so tightly that the cane itself shook from the tension.

One of the interns had tracked down Wilson during a meeting, motioning to him from just outside the room and handed him a message from House's department head.

He'd found House stretched out on the couch in the infectious diseases lounge. He'd been there for more than an hour, and had been pacing off and on before that, O'Neal had said.

"I told him he should go home, take some time." O'Neal had never been happy with House's work ethic before the infarction. After it, he'd been eager to adjust House's schedule, to find him a new, ergonomic office chair, to let him come in late, to leave early, to make everything easier.

"He's probably afraid I'll go all ADA on his ass," House had grumbled.

Wilson hadn't argued the point. House was probably right. O'Neal knew his regulations, from the number of days they could keep a medicare patient in the ICU to the when he should bring in the CDC. One time Wilson spotted him reading the weight limit restrictions for the elevator, then counting the number of people inside it. Sometimes Wilson thought O'Neal expected House to quit and he was just biding his time until that day, and making sure that there were witnesses that he had done everything according to the book.

Wilson had been surprised to see House at work this morning at all. He'd been tempted to pull the covers up over his own head this morning at the sound of thunder, the flash of lightning. The morning weather report warned that temperatures would only drop more. Snow was expected before the weekend. When Wilson had stepped outside he felt the damp and chill soak through to his bones within moments. He couldn't imagine how deeply it had cut into House.

Now he knew.

Once they were at House's place, he bypassed the couch, headed straight for the bed.

"You have to call her," House said. He winced as he used his left foot to force the sneaker off of his right foot, not even bothering to untie the laces. He used the tip of his cane to shove the left shoe off from his heel.

"You could call her yourself," Wilson said, nodding toward the phone on the night stand.

House shook his head, still looking down at feet. "I can't," he said. He reached down with both hands to support his right leg up onto the bed. He held his breath for a moment, then glanced up at Wilson. "I don't need your pity," he said, his voice growing louder. "I just need you to make a damn call."

Wilson tried to clear his face of whatever expression he'd had that had set House off. He ignored the anger he'd heard in House's voice, figuring House was more mad at himself than at Wilson.

He checked his watch and calculated the distance between Quantico and Princeton. "I'll call," he said, "but they must be more than halfway here by now," Wilson said. The Colonel had insisted on driving, rather than taking the train. He always did.

"Control issues," House mumbled one time.

Wilson knew he'd be driving the same route as always, and that he'd probably left at the same time and would be driving the same speed. It was easy to figure out where they'd be by now.

"If they're only halfway here, then they only have halfway to go back." House said.

"She won't want to go home," Wilson pointed out. Blythe had been looking forward to spending her birthday with her son. The last time they'd talked, she told Wilson she was bringing dessert.

"Greg loves carrot cake," she'd said.

He'd laughed and pointed out that it was her birthday, and she should be the one getting the cake, not making it. She'd laughed with him. "Well I love carrot cake too," she'd said.

House was hunched forward on the bed now, both hands pushing down on his right thigh, working at the muscle. Wilson hung his coat on the door, then sat on the edge of the bed. He hesitated for just a moment, and House moved his hands away and lay back, allowing Wilson to work at the gnarled mass of muscle and scar tissue.

"I don't care if she doesn't like it," he said.

"Yes you do," Wilson said softly.

House took a short, sharp breath and held it. Wilson paused in the massage for a minute, then continued when House nodded.

"Your Mom has seen you in worse shape than this," Wilson pointed out.

House put one arm across his eyes. "It's not her," he said, softly. "I can't deal with him. Not now. Not today."

Wilson could feel the muscle beneath his fingers fighting his touch, coiling into tighter circles rather than loosening beneath his hands. He pressed down harder.

"What did he do to you anyway?"

House didn't say anything at first. He never did. But sometimes -- just for a moment -- Wilson caught a haunted look in House's eyes at the mention of his father that left Wilson shaken and questioning every meeting he'd ever had with the man.

"Nothing," House finally said. "Nothing important."

Wilson nodded and concentrated on the feeling of the tissue beneath his fingers, trying to focus instead on something solid, something he could deal with. But then he sighed and stopped.

"This isn't working," he said. "Want to try the heating pad? Or ice?"

"No ice," House said. "Heat."

Wilson nodded, though House wasn't looking at him. He went to the dresser that used to hold Stacy's things. Now the drawers held lotions and pills: laxatives, sleeping pills, vitamins, over the counter pain relievers and half-used bottles of prescription remedies. He held up a bottle of Oxycotin, left over from a failed attempt to get House off of the Vicodin.

"You should throw these out," he said, rattling the half-dozen pills still in the container.

"I'm saving them for a special occasion," House said.

Wilson put them back and grabbed the heating pad.

"What should I tell her when I call?" Wilson plugged an extension cord into the wall socket, then snaked the cord past the lamp, around the guitar that had migrated to the bedroom from the living room, under the bed and finally up onto the mattress. He plugged the heating pad into it.

"Tell her anything," House said. "Tell her I've got a case."

"You want me to lie to your mother?"

"Tell her I'm sick, that won't be a lie."

Wilson placed the heating pad on House's leg and let House wrap it around his thigh.

"Right," Wilson said. "I tell her you're sick, and she's going to tell your father to drive faster."

House grunted.

Wilson handed him the power switch and headed for the door. "I'll see what I can do," he said, and closed the door behind him.

Wilson stood in the middle of the living room, trying to think of what he could say, trying to forget how happy Blythe had been at the thought of her birthday plans. He walked across to the windows, and watched the rain come down. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Blythe's number.

The phone rang twice, three times. Wilson could picture her fumbling for the phone in her purse.

"Hello, James," she said. "What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

"Why else would you call now?"

Wilson smiled, thinking of how House always said he couldn't lie to her. A gust of wind blew the rain hard against the windows. Maybe he didn't have to lie. "The weather's pretty nasty up here," he said. "I thought I'd check and see how you were doing."

"We're about forty miles north of Baltimore," she said. "How bad is it there?"

"No snow yet, but we may have sleet soon." Not a lie, Wilson told himself. "Maybe," he said, "maybe you should delay the trip for a few days."

He could hear Blythe passing the word to her husband, the mumble of his voice in the background. "We'll be fine," she finally said. "John grew up in Ohio, and he says he knows how to drive in snow." Wilson heard the mumble again, the Blythe, speaking to the Colonel. "Yes, dear, I believe you."

Wilson sighed. "I'd hate to see you get stuck in a hotel," he said.

There was no response for a few moments. "We've spent time in hotels before," Blythe finally said. She paused a moment. "James, what's going on? What's wrong?"

Wilson shook his head. The truth then. "He's having a bad day," he said. "I don't think he's going to be up for going out for dinner tonight."

She was quiet again. "We don't have to go out," she said, her voice quieter. Wilson could hear her disappointment as clearly as if she was in the same room. "How bad?"

Wilson turned, looked over at the closed bedroom door. "Pretty bad," he said.

"And he doesn't want to see me?"

Wilson closed his eyes, wished he hadn't heard the hurt in her voice, but he had and he could picture her now, her eyes soft and the smile disappearing from her face. He should have told House to make his own call. "It's not that," he said. "It's just ... maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a few hours he'll be feeling better."

He heard her conferring with the Colonel again. He couldn't pick up the words, just the mix of their voices, hers still soft, his stronger, more emphatic. "We're going to keep heading up," Blythe finally said. "We'll head to the hotel first, then play it by ear."

Wilson nodded. It wasn't what House wanted, but was better than nothing. "Fine," he said. "I'll let Greg know."

"I'll call you later," Blythe said. "Goodbye, James."

Wilson hung up and turned back to the window, wincing as another gust rattled the rain against the glass.

House made sure Wilson was there before his parents arrived. Wilson called Julie, and apologized for missing dinner. She told him she understood, then said she might go out with some friends since he wasn't going to be there.

"Sounds good," he'd said. "You should enjoy yourself." He hung up and turned to House.

"You're on defense," House said. He was sitting on the couch, his right leg propped up on the coffee table.

"Man-to-man or zone defense?"

"Man-to-man," House said. "You've got my Dad."

"I kind of figured that one out," Wilson said.

Wilson got up to answer the knock at the door. He heard the rattle of House's pill bottle, and waited just long enough for House to pocket the vial again. "Ready?"

House nodded.

Wilson swung open the door. Blythe was standing there, holding a Tupperware cake carrier. It looked the one that his own mother had at home. "Happy Birthday," he said, and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.

The Colonel walked in behind her, carrying a paper bag. Wilson took it from him. "How was the drive?" He peeked inside the bag, recognizing the take-out containers from a Chinese restaurant he'd taken Blythe to a few times.

"Not that bad," the Colonel said. "Nothing compared to the winters in Cleveland. That was real snow."

Wilson nodded. The Colonel stopped to take off his coat. Blythe had walked straight over to House and was leaning over him now, speaking softly. He couldn't make out the words, but he saw House smile a little. Blythe put the cake on the cushion next to him.

"That's for everyone now," she said. "You have to share it."

"Aw, Mom," House said, using the same teasing tone that Blythe had used.

Blythe handed her coat to her husband and he hung it up, then closed the closet door. Wilson took the food to the kitchen. Blythe followed him. He put the bag on the butcher block and started removing the containers.

"So," he heard the Colonel's voice from the living room. "You're a little sore today?"

"A little," House said, his voice dark.

Blythe touched Wilson's arm. "I've got this," she said. "You should make yourself comfortable." She nodded toward the living room. Wilson p ut down the box he'd been holding and walked into the living room. The Colonel was standing at the end of the coffee table, looking down at his son. House was staring at the windows, his jaw clenched tight.

"One of my roommates in college was from Cleveland," Wilson said. He walked around the back of the couch, coming around the end to stand near the Colonel. "Every time I bitched about the weather, he used to tell me the snow was worse there than in Montreal."

The Colonel turned away from House, looked at Wilson. He nodded. "Lake effect," he said. "One year when I was a kid, we had drifts up to the top of the telephone poles."

Wilson sat on the edge of the couch, on the far end from House. "You must have had a lot of snow days when you were a kid," he said.

The Colonel looked around, then settled into the closest chair to him, which was also the furthest from House. "Not really," he said. "Not like kids have these days. I swear down in Virginia they cancel the schools at the first snowflake, even on the base."

"Well, they're not used to it down there, are they?"

The Colonel leaned back, started talking about bad drivers. Wilson let him.

House didn't eat much. Wilson wondered how bad the nausea was today, and if it was due more to the pain, or to the extra Vicodin House had been popping all afternoon. House's plate was still more than half filled when Blythe took it away. She held it in front of him for a moment.

"I'm saving room for cake," House said.

Blythe looked at him for a moment, then at Wilson before she took the plate away.

House leaned back against the cushions, one hand over his eyes. Wilson watched him for a moment, then turned to see the Colonel studying him. Wilson wondered if the Colonel was judging his son, finding something lacking.

Wilson stood, took a step toward the Colonel, blocking his view of House. "Maybe you can do me a favor," he said.

The Colonel looked up at him and smiled. "Sure thing," he said. "What is it?"

Wilson glanced toward House. "I gave Greg a ride home. We left his car over at the hospital. Can you head over there with me and drive it back here?"

"Now?"

"If you don't mind," Wilson said. "We can have our cake when we get back." He turned toward House. "If you don't mind," he said.

House nodded. "Sounds like a great plan," he said.

"What does?" Blythe came out of the kitchen. The Colonel stood and handed her his plate.

"Wilson and I are going to go get Greg's car," he said. "Save us some cake." He kissed her on the cheek, then went to the closet.

Wilson looked at House. "You need anything else while we're out?" House shook his head, and Wilson grabbed his own coat. "We'll be back soon," he said.

Wilson hunched down into his coat as he stepped outside into the cold. The rain had stopped, but the wind still seemed to blow right through him. The Colonel didn't even seem to notice.

Wilson unlocked his car and climbed in, the Colonel only a step behind. He started the car, waited for the Colonel to buckle his seat belt, then pulled away from the curb.

"Blythe told me that Greg wasn't taking PT anymore," the Colonel said.

"No." Wilson found himself bracing for whatever the Colonel was going to say, and wondering why he always agreed to run interference. "He didn't think it was doing any good."

"He's paying for it now, isn't he?"

Wilson counted to three before he answered. "He's in pain all the time," he said. "It's nerve damage. No amount of physical therapy will help that."

"He was always afraid of hard work," the Colonel said, ignoring Wilson. "You had to push him." He nodded, as if he had just convinced himself that he was right. "Anyone pushing him now?"

"He pushes himself," Wilson said. He didn't say what he wanted to say, to ask the Colonel every question House refused to answer. He could wait until House was ready to talk about it, if he ever was.

They passed a few blocks in silence, the Colonel staring out the window, Wilson gripping the steering wheel tight.

"Other people live with pain too," the Colonel finally said.

Wilson didn't say anything, just willed the stop light at the intersection to stay green. It didn't.

"I don't know why Greg thinks his pain is any different," the Colonel said. "You'd think he'd be grateful that he's alive, not bitching that his leg hurts."

"It's his pain," Wilson said, his jaw tight. "And he's in pain all the time. Pain that you and I don't understand. Some days it's just bad. Other days it's unbelievable. Days like today?" He shook his head.

The light turned green and he sped off through the intersection. He could see the lights of PPTH a few blocks away.

The Colonel was quiet for the next block. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Wilson had ever heard before, quieter than he'd thought the man was capable of. "I know he's in pain," he said. "I hate seeing him like that. I hate seeing anyone like that. But for God's sake, why can't he stop thinking about pain and just be happy he's alive?" He was silent for a moment, as Wilson pulled into the parking lot. "I am," he finally said.

-------------------

Blythe had tried to sit quietly with Greg in the living room, but he had barely responded to her questions. He sat there, holding himself stiffly, as if the slightest movement might set something off. She was reminded of the days he'd sit silently at the dining room table, only speaking when John asked him a question.

"You can go and lay down, if you want," she told him. "You don't have to keep me entertained."

"I'm fine," he said. He gave her a slight smile, but it only lasted a few seconds before the smile disappeared.

Blythe got up. "I'll just get the cake ready, then," she said. She paused as she passed him, and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. He cocked his head toward her. "I'm fine," he said again, making another attempt at the smile. It held longer this time, but wasn't there when she turned to look back at him from the kitchen.

She uncovered the cake, feeling useless. She wanted to help him, to soothe him somehow, but it had been a long time since Greg had let her to kiss whatever hurt and make it better.

Before he'd even started school John had convinced Greg that big boys didn't cry. Greg would bite his lip, hold himself still and refuse to even admit he was hurting. At least not when it was anything important.

"Don't baby him, Blythe," John would say.

She trusted that he knew what he was doing. He came from a family of boys -- of men -- strong, good, military men. She only had sisters.

So Blythe believed him. She tried not to interfere, and instead she'd head into the kitchen. Make something sweet, something Greg loved, giving him comfort the only way he'd take it -- in the form of cookies or cakes or a favorite soup or just a simple peanut butter sandwich.

More than thirty years later, she thought to herself, and she was still falling into the same patterns. She cut the cake, and put four slices on four plates. It wasn't enough, Blythe thought, but she didn't know what else she should do.

She looked out into the living room, saw Greg sitting there alone. Always alone.

No, she remembered. Not alone. Not always. James always seemed to know what he needed, and how to help him. She'd seen the way he'd intervened with John tonight, had seen the way he could even sometimes convince Greg to do something he didn't want to do -- either with a soft voice, or a joke, or just by asking.

James could help her learn what to do.

Greg heard the noise first, footsteps outside the door. She saw him turn toward the door as it opened and James and John came in.

"It's starting to snow," John said.

James was quiet, just taking their coats, hanging them up. Blythe saw him look at Greg, share some silent thought with him, saw them both nod.

"Maybe we better get to our dessert then, and head over to the hotel before things get bad," Blythe said.

"It's not that bad," John said, but he took the plate she offered him.

James took one in each hand, handed one to Greg, then sat on the end of the couch again, the same spot he'd claimed before.

"We parked your car in the garage," James told Greg. "You want your keys?"

Greg shook his head. "I'll get them later," he said. He took small bites of his cake, eating slowly. Blythe was used to seeing him bolt down his desserts, then ask for more. But she reminded herself that was when he was boy, before all of this happened.

John finished his cake, then excused himself and went into the bathroom. Blythe took her chance and headed into the kitchen, asking James to bring the other plates with him.

"It's wonderful cake, Blythe, I'm glad you brought it," he said, and put the plates in the sink. He turned to go back into the living room, but Blythe called his name, and put her hand on his arm.

"I need you to do something for me," she said, keeping her voice soft so Greg wouldn't hear. "I need to know what I can do for Greg. I need to know how I can help him."

James tilted his head slightly and leaned down toward her. He looked confused. "You already do," he said. "You help him all the time."

"I don't know enough. Not like you do. I can't tell ..." she looked down for a moment, then up at James. "All I know is that every time I see him, he's in pain." She paused for a moment, tried to gather her thoughts again. "He's in pain and I can't help him. I know I can't take his pain away from him, but I'd like to know more about what I _can_ do. What he'll let me do."

James shook his head slightly. "I don't think I know anything special," he said, but Blythe nodded.

"Yes you do," she said, "and I'd like to know more." Blythe said, then smiled. "Don't worry. I don't expect you to tell me everything tonight. We've both got time."

They turned as they heard the bathroom door opening, and John's footsteps in the living room. James looked back at her and smiled.

"All right," he said, and put a hand on hers. "We'll talk later."

Blythe nodded. "I'd like that."


	8. When Greg Got His Department

Blythe knocked on the door, but there was no answer. John tried the knob. It was locked.

"You told him we were coming, right?" John asked.

Blythe nodded. "Of course," she said. "Maybe he's with a patient?"

"He probably wasn't paying attention to the time," John said. He looked at his own watch, the one he'd had for nearly twenty years, the one he checked against the kitchen clock every morning -- the kitchen clock itself checked against the time at the base headquarters every week.

Blythe knocked again. She looked up at the office number. It was the right one, she thought, then glanced over at the name plate and felt her heart catch. It was empty, just a blank holder where the words "Gregory House, M.D." were supposed to be.

John followed her gaze. "Oh hell," he said. "I suppose he got himself fired again."

Blythe shook her head. "No. He would have told us."

"Like he did last time? Three months later when your letter came back unopened?" John turned and walked down the hall toward one of the other offices, one with an open door.

Blythe glanced up at the name plate there. Maybe the department had been moved to another wing, and Greg had forgotten to mention it, she thought. But the name was a familiar one, Ray Kakarala. She'd even met him once when he paid a short visit to Greg's hospital room

John knocked on the door. "Excuse me," he said, and Blythe saw the man's face look up. "I'm looking for my son, Greg House," John said.

"He doesn't work here any more," Dr. Kakarala said. Blythe felt her heart skip a beat again and closed her eyes so she wouldn't see the disappointment on John's face -- and maybe so that he couldn't see it in hers. "He's on the fourth floor," Dr. Kakarala continued, and Blythe opened her eyes. She looked at the man, but couldn't tell from his expression if the fourth floor was a good thing or a bad thing. She smiled. Good, she thought to herself. It had to be good.

She looked over at John. He still didn't seem convinced about that. "Where on the fourth floor?" she asked.

"Take the main elevators and turn right. You can't miss it," Dr. Kakarala said.

John thanked him and they headed back down the narrow hallway, making their way through the old building's narrow corridors.

"What the hell is going on? John wondered out loud. Blythe didn't answer him. She was asking herself the same question.

They followed the directions, going first to the main elevators at the far end of the wing, leaving behind the old concrete and drab gray linoleum floors for the dark wood and glass of the refurbished central halls.

She looked at the directory as they waited for the elevator, still unsure why Greg had moved, and why he hadn't told them. Nephrology was on the fourth floor, she noticed. Maybe he'd decided to go back into that specialty?

Blythe tried to fight back the worry she was still feeling. Maybe, she thought, nephrology took him back when no one else would.

Two nurses moved aside to make room for them when the elevator opened, and John hit the button for the fourth floor.

"Why didn't he say anything?" John asked again.

Blythe still didn't have an answer. "I'm sure he had a reason," she said.

When the doors opened again they turned right and followed the hallway around a corner. The second room had a wall of glass, the blinds open, and Blythe could see Greg inside, sitting at a conference table.

He was talking to someone with dark hair who was slouched down in a chair. Blythe smiled, recognizing the faint sound of James' voice.

John opened the door and she walked through. Greg stood and walked a few steps around the end of the table to give her a hug. "You found it," he said.

"We would have been here ten minutes ago if you'd told us you moved," John said. "You manage to piss off another boss?"

"You didn't tell them?" James asked.

"I wanted it to be a surprise," Greg said.

"You didn't tell them," James repeated, this time a statement, rather than a question.

"That would have ruined the surprise," Greg said, then turned toward Blythe. "Surprise," he said.

He smiled, and Blythe felt herself relax for the first time since they'd found the old office door locked. Greg actually looked ... happy. Maybe it was the light, with the afternoon sun flooding the room from the bank of windows.

She looked into his eyes and smiled back at him. It wasn't a trick of the light, Greg actually was happy.

Blythe watched him as he stepped away, back toward the center of the room. She tried to remember everything James kept telling her, about watching the way Greg moved, about watching the way he held his cane -- if he had the handle in a tight grip or a loose one -- about watching the set of his shoulders -- if they were straight or hunched -- everything about watching how easily he moved, rather than how quickly.

"Sometimes he'll move fast _because_ he's in pain," James had warned her on one cold winter day when Greg had gone to claim an empty table in the cafeteria. "It hurts too much to be on his feet, so he gets off of them as quickly as possible."

Now he bypassed his empty chair at the table to stand in the middle of the room and Blythe smiled. It was a good day.

"You got a new office? Is that such a big deal?" John asked. His words were harsh, but Blythe recognized the relieved tone in his voice. He'd been worried, she thought, and she turned to him, to help him calm down, but John moved away. He walked down the length of the office toward the windows at the far side of the room.

"Not just an office," Greg said. He spread his arms wide, his cane dangling from his right hand. "Welcome to the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's Department of Diagnostic Medicine."

"Greg's the director," James said, making a point that Greg hadn't. James was watching John as John made his way past an empty desk in the corner of the room.

"It's smaller than your old desk," John said.

"That's not my desk, that's for my minions," Greg said. He walked over to another glass wall which ran the length of the room, and pushed open the door separating the room from another. "My desk is here," he said. "In my office."

Blythe followed him through. There were more books, a lounge chair, a large desk already covered with a slightly chaotic blend of papers, books and unopened mail.

There were more windows behind the desk, and a door that led outside. It was a nicer office than he'd had before -- nicer than even his old boss had. She turned to him to see him standing at the center of the room -- of his office, she corrected herself. Greg was watching her as she took it in and returned her smile.

Blythe stepped up to the door leading out to the hallway, and traced the letters there that spelled Greg's name.

"This is wonderful," she said.

"Kind of small for a whole department, though, isn't it?" John was standing at the door separating Greg's office from the other room.

Blythe looked over at Greg to see his smile drop.

"It's a small department, but it's an important one," James said, and John turned back to look at him. "He'll be consulting with everyone. "He'll get all the tough cases. When no one else can figure out what's wrong, they'll call him."

James was smiling and he sounded proud. Blythe felt her own pride build as he spoke. John turned to look at Greg. He nodded. "Good," he said.

Greg looked down and shook his head for a moment as James led John over to the far side of the conference room and poured him a cup of coffee. Blythe walked up to Greg and touched him on the arm. "Well I think it's wonderful," she said.

He looked down at her. "You already said that."

"Then I must really mean it," she said. She tightened her grip on his sleeve. "I'm proud of you," she said. "I always am."

----------

Wilson had seen the set of House's shoulders drop as his father spoke, and he shook his head slightly.

John remained in the doorway, watching as Blythe stepped up to House and spoke quietly to him. Wilson tapped him on the shoulder. "Coffee?"

John turned toward him and nodded. He followed Wilson over to the far corner of the room. Wilson took one of the clean mugs off the shelf and poured a cup.

The Colonel took his coffee black. Wilson wasn't sure when it was he learned that, but it fit the Marine persona. He smiled a little, wondering if House started taking sugar just to defy his father. Then he remembered that House sometimes took it black as well. He wondered if that was supposed to mean something, if House was trying to punish himself by conjuring up his father's taste in coffee.

He shook his head and handed the coffee over to the Colonel. Sometimes he understood why it was that House hated psychology. All it ever gave him was questions, and no answers.

"So are you going to be working for Greg?"

Wilson shook his head. "He'll have his own team."

The Colonel took a sip of his coffee and turned to look into the other room. Blythe was sitting behind House's desk now, her son standing behind her, pointing to something on the computer screen.

She smiled up at him, and Wilson could hear her laughter through the open door. He looked over at the Colonel. He had a wistful look on his face, but Wilson couldn't tell what the man was thinking.

House had complained before that he could never tell what would make his father happy, and Wilson found himself wondering how often the boy that House had been had waited to see some glimpse of joy on his father's face.

His own father had been quick to smile, quick to praise. He'd hug them when they did well, and when they didn't. "Good job," he'd say, or "I know you did your best."

The first time House met Wilson's father, he had held himself stiff. "I don't hug," he'd said, and his father had laughed. "Not yet," he'd said, "but you'll learn," and satisfied himself with a two-handed handshake.

The Colonel allowed himself a real smile for a moment as he watched through the glass, though Wilson wasn't sure if it was for his wife or his son.

"You should be proud," Wilson said. "The hospital created this department just for your son." The colonel turned toward him. Wilson still couldn't read his emotions. "He has a unique skill. People from all over come to him for help."

"What makes you think I'm not proud?" The Colonel looked back toward the other room where House was leading Blythe out onto the balcony.

"Because ..." Wilson wasn't sure what the man expected him to say, but then the Colonel surprised him again and chuckled.

"Blythe is always telling me I need to relax," he said. "I guess she's right." He shrugged and took a step to the right, closer to the window where he could see Blythe and House. "Old habits die hard."

He kept looking out the window. "As far as Blythe was concerned, Greg could do no wrong when he was a boy. If he got a B on a paper, she was happy. I was the one to tell him he could do better. If he struck out in Little League, I was the one who had to teach him to keep his eye on the ball."

The Colonel took another drink and watched as his son and his wife laughed together at something he couldn't see.

"I've always been proud of him," the Colonel said. "But I always thought he could do even more if someone challenged him." He looked over at Wilson and shrugged. "Maybe I was right."

"Maybe you should tell him that," Wilson said.

The Colonel shook his head. "He'd never believe me if I did."

"He might," Wilson said. He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like House, taunting him for believing in the impossible.

They both watched as Blythe and House made their way back inside, and walked side-by-side through the office toward the conference room. Blythe was laughing again. Wilson saw House look up at his father, saw his smile fade.

The Colonel shook his head, and turned away from the office, toward Wilson. He leaned toward him, spoke in little more than a whisper. "No he won't."


	9. When Days Were Good

Blythe stepped out of the train station, blinking as the sunshine hit her full force. She held her hand in front of her face to block the glare and looked down at the concrete as she waited for her eyes to adjust.

She saw the tip of his left shoe first -- the dark blue nylon contrasting with the white sole -- then the right shoe. Then the dark wood and black rubber tip of the cane.

She squinted and looked up at Greg. "I wasn't expecting you," she said.

"You want me to leave?" He turned but she grabbed his arm before he could step away.

"Of course not," she said, and laughed. "You just surprised me."

Greg shrugged. "I wasn't busy, and I wanted to get some fresh air. I thought I could save you the cab fare."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Greg," she said, ignoring the rolling of his eyes.

He took a few steps toward his car and Blythe watched him for a moment. He moved easily, not leaning as heavily on the cane as he had during the spring. Maybe James was right, and Greg was improving.

"Not improving," James' voice reminded her as she recalled their last conversation, "at least not like you're hoping. He won't grow back that missing muscle, but he can learn how to use what he has a little bit better."

"But if he's moving better, doesn't that mean that he's not in as much pain?"

"Not necessarily. He may be adapting, or he may have finally found the right dosage on his medication."

But Blythe watched Greg moving now, stepping from the shade of a tree out into the full force of the sun, and wondered why it was that James still worried so much. Even if he was right, and it was just a matter of Greg adapting or learning how to adjust his medication, that was still a good thing.

"I just ... I just don't want you to get your hopes up," James always warned her.

Now Greg was studying her again. "Is something wrong?" He took a step back toward her and she shook her head.

"No, nothing," she said. "Just daydreaming, I suppose."

Blythe walked up to him and fell in step beside him. His car was parked in front of the station, in one of the wide spots set aside for the handicapped. She still hadn't gotten used to that, and didn't think she ever would.

Greg had joked about it once, saying it was the one thing he gained. "Great parking," he'd said, but the tone in his voice hadn't matched the smile on his face.

She waved him off when he stepped toward her side of the car. "I've got it," she said, and opened her door. She wondered for a moment if she'd done the right thing, if she'd hurt his pride by not letting him open her door, but he just walked around to his own side.

Blythe got in and tried not to notice the way he used one hand to support his leg as he settled behind the wheel. He started the car and backed out of the space. She saw him check his watch before he turned left at the end of the lot, away from the hospital.

"I thought we'd take the scenic route," he said. "You're not in a hurry to get back, are you?"

"No," she said. "Your father can always warm up some leftovers for dinner if I miss the next train."

Greg had the window open and a warm breeze blew through the car. Blythe caught the scent of roses as they drove past the botanical gardens, and newly mown grass as they passed a park. The sounds of a soccer game drifted through the window when he came to a stop at an intersection.

He didn't move forward after the traffic cleared and Blythe looked over at him. Greg was watching the game, boys and girls no more than six or seven years old running around the field, parents watching and yelling from the sidelines.

Greg turned to her and smiled. He pointed to one of the men on the field shouting at the kids and at the refs. "That one would be Dad," he said.

Blythe shook her head. "He's not loud enough," she said, and Greg chuckled. It was good to hear him laugh when he talked about his father, and Blythe let his good mood seep into her own emotions and ignored James' warnings.

He drove ahead, then turned to follow the river. "Remember when the coach banned him from football practice?"

Blythe laughed. "Only for a week," she said. "You should have seen how red he'd get when he had to keep quiet after the coach let him come back." Greg had only been fourteen then, a second string running back. John had been convinced the coach should have had him playing quarterback and starting the game.

"He only had to put up with it for a couple of months," Greg said.

John had been transferred not long after that, well before the end of football season, and Greg found himself another sport when they moved, then another in the next town, and another after that in another town.

"He should stick to one," John had complained after Greg traded his track uniform for lacrosse. "He'll never make first team in anything if he keeps changing. He looks undisciplined. The coaches are going to think he's not dedicated."

"He's having fun," Blythe pointed out. She didn't bother trying to argue that they were never in one place long enough for Greg to really settle onto a team anyway.

Blythe looked out car window at the river. She could see two boats with single rowers near the far bank. A runner broke out of the trees moving toward them, his t-shirt soaked with sweat. She saw Greg glance at him, then turn his attention back to the road.

He took the next turn to the left, away from the river and toward the hospital. "Wilson's waiting for us," he said. His voice didn't seem as light as it had a few minutes earlier, but when Blythe looked over at him, his expression hadn't changed. He even smiled when she caught his eye. "He's wearing the tie you sent him for his birthday."

"He didn't have to do that," Blythe said, though she was happy to know that he did. It was a simple navy blue with red stripes that had caught her eye when she was shopping one afternoon at home.

"You never gave me a tie," Greg said.

"That because you'd never wear it, dear." James always dressed like a doctor, Blythe thought, with his dress pants and ties and white lab coat. The classic pattern on the tie she'd found seemed to match him, and she'd bought it without a second thought. She wondered why Greg never bothered dressing up any more. He used to, even though his white coat always seemed rumpled, and his ties were more colorful than anything that James would wear.

Blythe looked over at him now -- jeans, a white button-down shirt that he hadn't bothered to tuck in, and beneath that a dark t-shirt. He'd only worn tennis shoes since he got sick, claiming that they were stable than his dress shoes.

She reached over and tried to smooth the wrinkles on his shirt sleeve. "At least you could iron," she said.

Greg shrugged and turned into the parking lot. "I didn't have time this morning," he said.

"Or any other morning?"

He smiled but didn't answer.

Greg pulled into his parking spot and turned off the engine, but he didn't get out. He checked his watch. "So Dad's doing all right?"

"Yes, he's fine."

"Good. What about Aunt Sarah, have you heard from her?"

"We talked a few days ago. She and Tom are planning a trip to Las Vegas next month. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious." Greg checked his watch again. He grinned, then opened his door. "I'm hungry," he said. "Let's find Wilson."

----------

Wilson glanced up when his office door swung open. He saw Blythe enter first, then House. "Cuddy's looking for you," he said. "She said you missed your meeting."

"Meeting?" House stood next to the open door. "I don't remember anything about a meeting."

"The one at eleven," Wilson said.

"You told me you weren't busy this morning." Blythe stared at her son and shook her head.

"I forgot," House said. "I'll go and track her down now."

"She had another meeting at eleven thirty," Wilson said, and checked his watch. It was ten minutes past that.

"I guess I'll just have to catch up with her later," House said. He glanced at Blythe, then turned away again as she shook her head at him. "So ... lunch?"

They ended up outside on the patio, Blythe and Wilson with salads, House with a sandwich and fries carefully balanced on his tray. House sat in the sun, laughing with his mother as she talked about House's first day at school.

"He left during recess," she said. "He said he'd already learned everything."

"I had," he said. "First grade was a waste of time."

"That's what he said about ninth grade too," Blythe said. "And tenth grade and eleventh grade ..."

"You forgot about junior high."

Wilson glanced around, recognizing a few of the doctors and nurses, but more than half of the people at the tables were visitors -- friends and family of patients. With his cane stashed under the table, House was anonymous to them: nothing to identify him as a doctor, nothing to give the slightest clue that he'd ever been a patient.

Even the pallor that had seemed to seep into his skin was gone. He'd been getting out more, even if that just meant sitting outside watching others pass by, and House had tanned to a light brown, looking more like the man he'd been when they met. He'd even gained back some of the weight he'd lost.

House chuckled again at some comment Blythe made, and Wilson smiled. It was good to near House laugh, even if his good mood didn't last. It never did.

Wilson heard the sound of Cuddy's high heels on the pavement a moment before she spoke.

"House," she said, making his name sound like an accusation.

"Yes?"

"I rescheduled our meeting twice," Cuddy said. She stood next to the table between House and Wilson, hands on her hips. "You still missed it." She glanced over at Blythe. "Hello, Mrs. House."

"I forgot," House said. He took a drink of his iced tea and tried to look innocent. It didn't work.

"Walters wants to quit," Cuddy said.

House shrugged. "Let him. He doesn't know anything anyway."

"He's here to learn. This is a teaching hospital. Teach him." Cuddy leaned down onto the table. "And that means more than teaching him to cover your clinic hours."

"Gee Cuddy, do you think this is the best place to discuss personnel issues?"

Cuddy stood again. She crossed her arms over her chest. "No," she said. "My office. Now."

"But my Mom is here," House said, nodding toward Blythe. "And she came all this way ..."

"I'm fine, Greg," Blythe said, and put a hand on his arm. "I should head back soon anyway."

House groaned, but leaned down for his cane. He kissed Blythe on the cheek. "See you later," he said, then followed Cuddy inside.

Blythe watched him go, then turned to Wilson. "I've met her before, haven't I?"

Wilson nodded. "She was Greg's doctor. Now she's the dean of medicine."

Blythe took a few more bites of her salad. She was smiling. She'd been smiling since she walked into Wilson's office. He wondered if she'd heard some good news. She leaned toward Wilson, looking like she had a secret to share.

"He's happy," she said. Her voice was quiet, almost as if she was afraid to say the words out loud.

Wilson glanced in the direction House and Cuddy had gone. "Not right now," he said.

"No, I mean ..." Blythe paused and seemed to consider her words. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Her smile faded as she looked out toward the line of trees at the edge of the parking lot.

"When he was a boy," she finally said, "my mother always used to say he never laughed. Greg was always serious. He'd find something that interested him for a while -- a book or a sport or some new piece of music -- something that he enjoyed, but she was right. He was never really happy. Not for long. I thought it was because we always had to move, but that wasn't it."

She paused again and finished her coffee. "When he went to college, I thought he'd be happy to be on his own, to finally settle someplace for a few years. Then I thought he'd be happy when he became a doctor. For a while I thought he was happy with Stacy. Maybe he was, for a while."

Blythe turned to Wilson. He noticed that her smile had returned. "But he's happy now, I think. He's got his job, he's healthy again," she put a hand on Wilson's arm, "he's got a good friend." She nodded. "It's just good to see him happy."

Wilson looked down at the table. He wanted to agree with her. He wished he did. House had been happy today, but those days weren't frequent enough. Most days he'd stay in his office, where no one saw him, and he had his books and his television to distract him.

But Blythe smiled again, and squeezed Wilson's arm briefly before letting it go. At least she was happy, and that was a good thing. Wilson smiled back and her and nodded. There was nothing wrong with letting her be happy for at least a little while. Maybe she was only seeing what she wanted to see, and ignoring the rest. Or maybe he'd become so accustomed to seeing the worst, that was all he could see.

Maybe she was seeing something he couldn't.

He shrugged and drained the last of his own coffee. "I hope you're right."


	10. When John Retired

"Why is your mother calling me to get you to go to your father's retirement party?" Wilson stood in front of House's desk, his hands spread apart in front of him as if he could actually grasp the question.

House barely looked up from his magazine. "Probably because I told her I wasn't going."

"And this would have been just before I'd told her I'd ride down with you," Wilson said. "You can see where there might be a little confusion."

"Call her back and tell her you're coming down alone," House said. "No more confusion."

Wilson sat in one of the chairs across from House's desk. "I'm not going to," he said.

"And I'm not going." House flipped a page.

"Yes," said Wilson. "You are."

House just shook his head and turned another page.

"Why not? It's a party. It's a few hours out of your life."

"Because I don't want to be there. My Dad probably doesn't care if I'm there. Hell, he doesn't even want to be there. The only reason he's retiring is the Corps' mandatory retirement age."

Wilson sighed. He wondered if it was possible to convince House that John really did care -- then wondered when exactly it was that he'd begun to think of the man as something other than "the Colonel."

House flipped another page. He'd never believe him, Wilson thought. Sometimes, despite the things the man said, he still didn't know how John felt about his son. He was certain John loved him, but he was just as certain that House somehow always disappointed his father.

Wilson decided to change tactics. "Your mother wants you there," he said. "And you're not going to have many more chances to see her before they move."

House looked up. "You do everything your mother wants you to do?"

"House, this isn't about eating your vegetables or buttoning your coat or wearing the sweater your Great Aunt Rachel knitted for you."

"You have a Great Aunt Rachel who knits?"

"That's not the point."

House ignored him. "Because that would explain the sweater vests."

"The point is this," Wilson said. "Your father is retiring after forty some years in the Marines. He's having a party. You're going."

"Nope."

Wilson leaned back in his chair and smiled slightly. "Yes you will, because your mother wants you there."

House looked down at his magazine again. "I don't care," he said, but Wilson heard the slight hesitation in his voice.

"Yes, you do." Wilson stood and turned to leave. "And you're going."

House turned up in Wilson's office two days later and told him they'd be driving to Quantico.

"No train?"

"The last train with a Princeton connection is at seven," House said. "I don't plan on sticking around until the next morning."

"But you _do_ plan on spending half the day driving."

"You're driving," House said, and walked out.

The party was at the officers' club. "Dad's idea," House said. "One last hurrah with the boys."

House stopped, still a few feet outside the main door. He stared at the dark wood, the opaque glass and the brass handle, and Wilson wondered if he was trying to ignore some old memory, or just working up enough willpower to walk inside.

After a few seconds he shuddered slightly, as if shaking himself free of something Wilson couldn't see, and stepped forward.

Blythe was standing just inside the private room at the back of the building, and she smiled when she saw them.

She hugged House. "I'm glad you came," she said, then turned toward Wilson and embraced him. "Both of you."

"Wouldn't have missed it," House said. Wilson saw Blythe shake her head, but she was smiling.

John was on the far side of the room in the full dress uniform Wilson had seen on so many recruiting posters. "Dress blues," House said, and headed for the bar.

John caught Wilson's eye and nodded to him, then searched the room until he saw the back of his son's head. He smiled, but House didn't see him. By the time House turned around -- a glass of beer in his hand -- John was talking to someone else nearby.

"If we're lucky, we can still make it back home in time for the start of the game," House said.

Wilson stepped up to the bar next to him and pointed toward a beer for himself. "What game?"

"Any game," House said.

The bartender handed over Wilson's drink. House stayed where he was, watching the crowd.

"Senior officers," he said, nodding toward the two men standing to John's right. He pointed to the left. "Junior officers." Then he half-turned toward a table with three other men, dressed in a slightly different uniform than the dress blues of the officers. "Noncoms," House said.

Wilson nodded at the men in front of John. They wore civilian suits, but held themselves with a familiar rigid posture.

"Retirees, like my Dad." House took a drink of his beer. "Sixty-four and out."

Wilson saw John pointing toward them, then waving to them to come over. House groaned but stepped away from the bar. "Let's get this over with," he said.

"This is my son, Greg," John was saying, and three of the men turned in their direction.

"Nice to meet you." One of the senior officers held out his hand to House. There was a silver oak leaf insignia on his collar, and Wilson tried to remember what rank that signified: major, maybe, or lieutenant colonel.

House had his beer in his left hand, his right held tight to the cane. He stared at the man's outstretched hand. Wilson wondered if he'd planned on having both hands occupied to avoid handshakes -- to make the Marines as uncomfortable as he must have been. Wilson shifted his beer into his left hand and took the man's hand in his right.

"I'm James Wilson," he said, and the man smiled a little and gave his hand two quick pumps up and down. "I work with Greg."

"Bill Peters," the man said.

"Wilson's a doctor too," John said.

"In Princeton, right?"

House's eyebrows raised slightly, and Wilson wasn't sure if he was surprised the man knew where they worked, or surprised his father had mentioned it.

"Every time I see Blythe she has to brag about you," the man continued, and House's eyes narrowed. He nodded.

"You know how mothers are," House said, and took a drink.

"We're going to miss the old man," another one of the men said. Wilson glanced over and saw two bars on his collar -- captain. Even he could remember that one. "He kept us all in line."

House nodded, but didn't say anything. He shifted slightly and leaned more heavily on the cane. He glanced over at one of the tables. Wilson knew better than to ask how he felt -- at least here and now.

The conversation hit a lull, then the captain spoke up again. "He's got some great stories," he said. "He ever tell you about the time he had to eject at 20,000 feet?"

"Twenty-two thousand," House and his father said at the same time. House smiled slightly and looked over to catch his father's eye. John smiled back.

"I wouldn't recommend it," John said. "I broke my shoulder when the canopy blew. It hurt like a bitch when the chute deployed." He shook his head. "Fighter jets are for the young."

John took a sip of whatever whiskey he had, and the ice cubes rattled against the glass. House glanced over at the tables again.

"I'm going to get something to eat," he said. He took a half-step away, then turned back. He transferred his cane to his left hand, managing to hang onto both it and the beer. He held out his right hand to his father. "Congratulations."

John smiled, took his son's hand. "Thank you," he said. "I'm glad you're here. This means a lot to me."

House waited for a moment, then withdrew his hand and took the cane again. He nodded slightly, then turned away.

--------

Blythe found Greg sitting alone at a table. The plate off to his right was covered with the bones from some chicken wings, a few toothpicks and a splatter of red sauces. She leaned down over his shoulder and kissed his cheek.

"Your father is so glad that you're here," she said.

"I can tell," Greg said. He watched John as he told a story. Blythe couldn't tell what it was, but the other men he was with were laughing. James was standing with them, but kept looking back at Greg.

"I'm glad you're here too," she said, and Greg turned to look at her.

He reached over to pull out the chair to his left. "Have a seat," he said, then watched her as she did. "You look tired."

"I think I must be getting old," she said, and laughed. "It used to be easier to pack."

"It was never easy," he said. "It was just ... fast."

Blythe laughed again, remembering how quickly she had learned to gather all the important pieces of her life -- her grandmother's jewelry, her father's books, her mother's recipes. She had learned to cushion them with newspaper and blankets and quilts to keep them safe. Sometimes they had little more than a few days warning before she'd fill boxes and duffle bags: heaviest things at the bottom, the lightest at the top.

They had never owned much, never owned their own home, they even rented all but a few pieces of furniture, but now that they were leaving behind the only life she and John had known together, it seemed harder to pack the few things that they did own. Everything seemed to have some extra meaning, something she couldn't bear to put away: the shoes she bought John at the NEX, the welcome packet with its list of base emergency numbers she'd never need again, the train schedule.

It was even harder than it had been when Greg was small, before he could pack his own things, before he knew how to separate the things he needed from the things he wanted.

Blythe looked over at him. She reached out and took his hand, smiling as he turned his palm toward her, allowing his fingers to intertwine with hers. She tried not to notice the lines in his face, the circles under his eyes, the way he had seemed to age so quickly in the past few years. "How are you feeling, honey? Are you OK?"

"Never better," he said.

She shook her head, but didn't say anything. There would be time for that later, time for another trip to Princeton before they moved, time to assure herself one more time that he would be all right without her there.

"It's a long drive down here," she said. "I wish you weren't going back so soon. You should stay the night, and get some rest."

"Wilson's got a meeting with a patient in the morning," Greg said.

Blythe knew that wasn't true. James had already told her he'd cleared his calendar. When she looked Greg in the eye, he turned away and she decided to ignore the lie. He was here, she told herself. That was enough.

She'd realized long ago that Greg would never have the kind of relationship with John that she would have liked for them to have -- but she never stopped hoping that she was wrong, that they would still find some peace.

But he was here now, and that was a good thing. Blythe gave his hand a gentle squeeze and felt his grip tighten in response.

"I'm glad James could come too," she said. "I hope he doesn't hate me for dragging him all the way down here again."

"I could never hate you." James' voice came from behind her, and Blythe turned to see him there with a plate in his hand. Greg reached for it, but James pulled it back. "This one's mine," he said. "Get your own."

He sat to Blythe's left. She heard the chair scraping to her right, and turned to see Greg pushing himself up, taking his cane from where it had been hanging on the edge of the table.

"My mother taught me to share," he said, and nabbed cookie from the edge of James' plate.

"But yet you never actually do," James said. He watched for a moment as Greg walked away, then turned back to his plate.

Blythe was turned halfway in her seat. She saw how Greg skirted around the edge of the crowd, then watched as he filled his plate at the dessert table. He seemed to be a little stiff, but James didn't seem concerned, so she tried to quiet her worries.

"You really didn't have to come," she said, turning to James.

"I know," he said. "But I wanted to see John again before you moved." He took a bite of cake. "You're still coming for another visit next week on your own, right?"

Blythe nodded.

"I guess we won't be seeing so much of each other once you're in Florida."

"We'll still come to visit," Blythe said.

"But not as often."

She nodded. She and John had thought about staying somewhere close to Greg, but her family was still in Florida. They had friends there -- other officers and their wives who had also retired. Pensacola was familiar, and after years of different bases and different towns and different friends, that would be a good change.

And she'd have a chance to meet new people too, and make new friends. Blythe looked over at James. Sometimes, she thought to herself, you couldn't predict just how important someone new could be in your life.

"Did I show you the photos of our condo?" James looked up from his plate and nodded.

"Twice." Greg put a plate on the table and sat again. He took two forks out of his pocket and handed one to Blythe. He pushed the plate toward her. He took a bite of chocolate cake. "It's not as good as yours."

Blythe put her hand on Greg's arm. He looked down at it, then looked into her eyes. She saw the humor in his eyes, the quick wit, the intelligence, and the warmth that he liked to pretend didn't exist.

"I'm going to miss you," she said.

"I'm going to miss you too," Greg said. He blinked once, twice, three times. He turned away and looked around the room, finally settling his gaze on John. "And Wilson can miss Dad."


	11. When Greg Went For A Visit

The first weeks after Greg left for college, Blythe wrote him long letters, filled with stories about where she had gone, about the gossip around the base, about John's newest assignments. They were the same things they would have talked about in the kitchen while he did his homework at the table, and she cooked dinner.

Every time John saw the letters, he'd just shake his head. "Don't expect an answer," he'd said.

She didn't. Just writing down the words made her feel closer to Greg, no matter how far away he was. It was enough to know that he read them.

And he did read them.

"Is that the same Katherine who didn't know the difference between Seoul and Singapore?" Greg had asked during one summer break as Blythe told him about a friend who had a habit of getting lost on the base -- repeating a detail she'd mentioned only in her letters.

Now, far away from him again, she fell into the same routine.

Blythe wrote him from Pensacola that John had taken up golf again, that she had started volunteering at the library's used book store, that she found fresh strawberries at the farmer's market.

And he still read them. Sometimes she even got answers -- though not the way she'd expected.

"Greg showed me the photos of your roses," James wrote in a brief note just after they'd moved. "I'm glad you have room there for your garden."

It was just a few words, scribbled down on stationery with the hospital's logo and James' name inscribed in the upper left corner, but as she read it, she could picture both of them in Greg's office, or maybe in the cafeteria. She could see Greg handing over the letter and the picture, the two of them laughing about something, Greg making some excuse to get James to pay for lunch.

Blythe could see it all, and for a moment, she felt like she had never left.

She sent James a card for his birthday, then something for his anniversary, then a card when she watched the sailboats one afternoon, and remembered one of his stories of a trip he'd taken a few years ago.

Unlike Greg, James wrote back. It was just a few lines, but he'd pass along some story about Greg that made her smile. It was James who told her that Greg had a new doctor working for him, a young man from Australia.

"I've met his father before," James wrote. "If the son is as brilliant as his father, Greg will be happy."

It was James who mentioned that Greg had another paper published, and even sent her a copy. She didn't really understand all of it, but she smiled to see his name there on the front page.

It was James who suggested that she try email. "He spends a lot of time on the computer, sometimes even for work," he wrote.

He was right. Blythe would send off an email, and nearly half the time, Greg responded. It wasn't much -- sometimes just a few words in response to a story -- but it seemed to shorten the distance between them even more.

"Dad needs to take golf lessons," he wrote after she told him that John had lost three balls in the water, "but he'll never admit it."

"Wilson says hello," he wrote one day, and Blythe could imagine James slouched down in a chair across from Greg's desk.

But sometimes the distance seemed further than she could imagine. Blythe found herself checking the weather forecasts for Princeton as summer slid into fall and she remembered how the ice and snow made Greg's leg ache even more.

She heard a snatch of Bach one day, and wished she could hear Greg play.

Sometimes, knowing how far apart they really were made her heart ache -- and for more than just Greg.

"Hello?"

Blythe doublechecked the number she had dialed. "James?" she asked, "Is that you?"

"Yeah." He sounded tired and worn out.

Blythe looked at the clock. It was before ten on a Sunday morning. "What's wrong?" If James was there, Greg must be sick. Maybe he was hurt again. Maybe that explained the rough sound of James' voice.

"Nothing's wrong," James said.

Maybe Greg had fallen on the ice. Maybe he'd needed some help.

Blythe heard Greg's voice on the other end of the line, asking who was on the phone, then the soft thumps of the phone as it passed from one hand to another.

"You're up early," Greg said.

"Are you all right?" Blythe asked. He sounded good, but he'd tried to fool her before.

"I'm fine."

"Why is James there? Have you been sick?"

She heard Greg sigh. "Everyone's fine."

"But ..."

"Wilson, tell my mother I'm OK."

"He's fine, Blythe." James voice came from somewhere near Greg. It still sounded rough to her ears.

Blythe didn't say anything for a moment and tried to decide whether to believe her son or her instincts.

"Wilson's just here because he was too drunk to drive home last night," Greg finally said.

"House," James groaned.

"Of course he decided to get drunk because he's been fighting with the little woman and didn't want to go home in the first place," Greg continued. Blythe could hear James mumble something in the background. "Is it just me, or could there be a connection between those two events?"

She heard movement in the background, the scrape of a chair, the shuffle of someone getting up and walking across the floor. "Don't use all the hot water," Greg called across the apartment.

Blythe didn't know whether to believe him. It didn't sound like James, but then sometimes she reminded herself that she didn't know everything about James, as much as she cared about him. She still had problems believing he'd been married and divorced twice already. She'd even had problems believing the few things James had admitted about those marriages.

"How are you doing?" Greg's voice broke through her thoughts and she shook herself back to the conversation.

"Fine," she said. "We're both fine." Blythe remembered the reason why she'd picked up the phone, worry about how Greg was handling the latest cold snap. It didn't seem to be as important now.

"I'm fine, you're fine, Dad's fine. I suppose that covers everything," Greg said. "Thanks for the wake-up call."

"Greg, don't joke about this." Blythe knew her frustration was seeping into her voice. She didn't care.

"About what?"

"About James. Is something wrong?"

He sighed and she heard him walking, the soft sound of his footsteps, then the thump of his cane. "You shouldn't worry," he said. "Wilson just needs to blow off steam every once in a while." Blythe recognized the hiss of a coffee maker as it started to brew. "How are the kids at the library, are you keeping them in line?"

Greg wasn't as good at changing the subject as James. Blythe still wanted to know what was going on, but then she reminded herself that she wasn't James' mother. It wasn't her place to tell him what he should do. "Your father's complaining that I'm bringing home too many books from work." She decided she'd play along, for now. If James and Greg wanted to insist that everything was fine, there wasn't much she could do. Not from nearly 1,000 miles away.

"You're not going anywhere," Greg said. "Tell him you'll buy all the books you want." Greg sounded relieved to be on a new topic. "I'll send you some money to buy even more, if you want."

"I think he'll adjust," Blythe said. "I pointed out that he could take up woodworking for a new hobby and make me some bookshelves."

Greg chuckled, and she felt her tension ease -- just slightly.

James sent her an e-mail a few days later, apologizing if he'd worried her. She assured him that she was fine, though her worries hadn't faded.

At Christmas, Blythe invited Greg to visit. "It's warm here," she said, knowing that snow had already fallen twice in New Jersey in the past month.

"It's hard to get time off during the holidays," Greg said. "You know how it is."

He promised to check the vacation schedule, but she noticed how carefully he avoided making any promises to actually ask for time off.

On Christmas morning, Blythe woke early and sat in the living room with a cup of coffee. The room was silent, and it was still dark outside. She remembered when Greg was a boy, how he'd run into the living room and count the presents under the tree -- when she was able to find a tree -- or on the table, when they were in Japan or Egypt or somewhere else with different Christmas traditions.

She plugged in the lights for the Christmas tree they'd bought two weeks earlier -- she'd insisted a real pine, not the artificial one that John wanted. She watched the lights blink on and off: red and green and white and blue bulbs casting shadows around the room.

She called Greg at a little before noon, before they left for dinner at her sister's. He sounded tired, and she wondered if the cold weather was wearing him down, or if he'd been telling her the truth when he'd said he had to fill in for someone else at the hospital overnight.

Blythe told him about his cousins who were in town for the holiday, and about the pies she'd made for dessert.

"I hate to think of you all alone up there," she said.

"I won't be," Greg said. "Wilson's forcing me to go to his place for dinner. He says he needs some moral support to deal with his in-laws."

"That'll be nice."

"No it won't. Julie comes from a family of accountants."

Blythe smiled. "Maybe the food will be good."

"I doubt it."

It was James who reassured her that Greg would be fine after he slipped on some ice, and James who told her that Greg wasn't answering his phone because he didn't want to talk to anyone after he lost a patient.

"He's mad at himself," James said as he explained why Greg had hung up on her, then unplugged the phone. "He thinks he should have been able to save her."

"Could he have?"

James sighed. "No," he said. "Not by the time she was referred to his office. It was too late."

Blythe didn't bother asking why Greg blamed himself. Anytime he cared about something he cared too much.

Blythe remembered Greg's hours of sulking after his team -- in whatever sport he was interested in at the time -- lost. Sometimes he'd shut himself in his room and barely talk to anyone for days. Sometimes he'd throw himself harder into practice, coming home bruised and bloodied. One day he came home with his skin scraped raw from a tumble on the cinder track trying to take the hurdles faster.

And it was James who mentioned that Greg would be in Atlanta early in the spring.

"He's got a meeting at the CDC offices," James said, and Blythe found herself calculating the distance there from Pensacola.

"Blythe?" She realized that James had asked a question.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was just thinking."

"That's all right," James said. "What about?"

"I was thinking that maybe I could meet him in Atlanta, even for a few hours," she said. "It's not far. Not really."

James told her it would be nice, and maybe she should think about it.

A few days later, he called and said he had another plan. It had been cold, he said, and Greg had been joking about going somewhere warm for a few days.

"Maybe he could come down there," James said. "He hasn't had a real vacation since before ..." Blythe knew what he meant, even if he didn't finish the sentence.

She heard John in the hallway, coming back from a lunch with some of the other retired officers. "Do you really think he'd come?"

"Maybe."

He had a plan. Blythe didn't understand all of it at first, but finally the details came together. Greg would drive down after the meeting and have a few days there . "He can stay at a hotel," James said. And James would drive up after spending a few days with his wife's family at their condo in Siesta Key and fly home with Greg after the weekend.

"That way I can tell him I need the excuse to get away from the in-laws early, so he'll agree to stick around to do me a favor," James said.

"It sounds complicated." Blythe wasn't sure if that plan was a fib on her behalf, or an excuse for him. Either way, it could convince Greg to come for a few days.

"But it'll work," James said. "Trust me."

Blythe thought for a minute, then smiled. "I always have."

-----------

Wilson drove north, then west through Florida's panhandle uncertain what he'd find in Pensacola. House hadn't wanted to go. He'd called Wilson's plan "idiotic," then called Wilson an idiot for coming up with it. He agreed to it only when Wilson agreed to another side trip.

"Alabama," he'd said.

Wilson had stared at him. "What's in Alabama?"

"The blues," House said. "You know what Alabama has that no place else has? W.C. Handy, Big Mama Thornton and Pinetop Smith."

"Aren't they dead?"

"Not their music."

Wilson hadn't argued. He didn't care where they went. He was just happy that House had agreed to go anywhere.

Before the infarction, Greg was always going somewhere. There were new things to do, and new places to go. After the infarction, that changed. Leaving home took too much energy, he'd say, complaining there was nothing worth the effort. At least when Blythe used to come into town, House would do something. He's take her new places. He'd smile for her benefit, and laugh at her jokes.

Now, he found more and more excuses to stay put. To skip staff meetings. To stay in his office -- or in Wilson's. Rather than going out to dinner, he'd have food delivered.

And House didn't want to talk about it either. "Don't nag," he'd said once when Wilson tried to get him to go out to the Japanese restaurant where House had taken Blythe.

"I need an interpreter to know what to order," Wilson had said.

House just shook his head. "Wrestlemania is on Pay Per View. I don't want to miss it."

Blythe had called Wilson when House arrived in Pensacola, saying he looked: "tired and cranky."

"So the same as usual, right?" Wilson asked, and she laughed.

Wilson followed her instructions from the freeway toward the water. It was dark and he drove slowly, watching for street signs. He found their condo complex, then their building -- set back slightly from the road, but close enough to the water that he could see the reflection of the full moon split into a thousand pieces by the small waves.

He stepped out of the car, shivering at the colder temperatures in northern Florida than he'd been used to further south.

Wilson smiled when the door opened, but then he noticed how Blythe's eyes were red and swollen and how she held damp tissues in her hand.

"Have you talked to him?" she asked.

Wilson shook his head. "What's wrong?"

"He's too damn sensitive for his own good." John's voice boomed out from behind Blythe, and Wilson looked past her to see John in the living room.

"They..." Blythe shook her head, "they had an argument."

"All I did was ask a simple question," John said. Wilson stepped into the condo and watched John pace from one end of the room to the other. He was wearing a golf shirt and khaki pants, but held himself as tightly as he had when he was on base, and in uniform.

"Greg walked out," Blythe said. "His car is still here, and he isn't answering his phone."

"How long ago?"

"Nearly two hours."

Wilson stepped into John's path. "What did you fight about?"

"It was nothing," John said. "And it wasn't a fight. It was a question."

Wilson took a breath, held it and counted to five. "It must have been something." He turned to Blythe, who shook her head.

"I was in the kitchen." She tried to smile, but it didn't take. She dabbed at the corner of her eye. "Things had been going so well. John was going to take him over to the putting green, ask Greg for some pointers. I thought, maybe, that things were good."

Wilson turned back to John, who had started pacing again, this time in a shorter loop -- four steps to the window, four steps back to where Wilson stood.

"There's this kid I've seen over at the club," John finally said. "Nice guy. He was a captain. He lost a leg in Afghanistan."

Wilson closed his eyes. He could picture the look on House's face, the way he'd shut down whenever anyone asked anything about his leg.

"You should see this guy's new leg. It's state of the art," John continued. "He can walk, he can run -- hell, he's training for a marathon."

He stopped pacing and looked at Wilson. "All I wanted to know is why Greg wouldn't even think about letting them ..." He shook his head. "If he's in pain all the time, wouldn't that be better?"

Blythe turned away, but Wilson could see her wiping her eyes again. "It's not that simple," he said.

"That's the same thing Greg said," John said. "That's what he always says." He put his hands on his hips and stared at the carpet. "Sometimes I think he likes being a miserable pain in the ass. He'd rather be in pain, because it gives him an excuse to ignore anything he doesn't want to do."

Wilson walked away from John, trying to put some distance between them, trying not to lose his own temper. John should have known better, he thought, but then John never seemed to know better. He'd claim to love his son, then find fault in him. Sometimes Wilson wondered if the man ever thought of House as anything more than a reflection on himself.

"He yelled for a while, then he walked out," John said. He nodded toward Blythe. "Now he's got his mother all upset."

Wilson didn't bother pointing out that John was the one making her cry now. He ignored him and walked over to Blythe, and put a hand her shoulder.

"He probably just needed to blow off some steam," he said.

She nodded, but didn't say anything.

"I'll take a look around outside. Maybe he'll answer my call."

Blythe was wiping away another tear as he walked out the door.

Wilson stood next to his rental car. He wasn't sure where to go, or where to look. If he was home, he'd check out House's apartment, he thought, or maybe just the nearest bar. He looked up and shrugged. A bar was as good a choice as any.

He walked out to the main road. He could see the lights of a diner to the left and a convenience store to the right. He pulled out his phone and dialed House's cell number. He heard it ring, then a faint echo of the buzz of House's ring tone from somewhere nearby. He took his own phone away from his ear and listened for the buzz again. He followed its sound across the street to the marina, then turned left.

He saw House's dark shape on a bench maybe twenty yards away. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He didn't look up as Wilson approached, just stared out at the sailboats and motorboats as they bobbed in the water at their moorings.

"I told you this was a stupid idea," House said.

Wilson shrugged and sat next to him. "Looks like you were right."

House reached down to the six-pack on the ground beneath the bench. "What took you so long?" He handed Wilson a beer. Wilson looked at the label. Coors. Wilson wondered if House had intentionally bought his father's brand, or if there just hadn't been much of a choice at the store. "I figured Mom hit speed dial as soon as I left."

Wilson shook his head and opened the bottle. "Maybe she thought you'd come back on your own."

House stared out at the water again. "I'm not going back in there."

"I'm not asking you to."

Wilson zipped up his jacket. "It's cold out here. You been here the whole time?"

House nodded. "Don't whine, it's not that cold." He spoke with a slight accent -- John's accent. "A little cold never hurt anyone." House took a drink. "It'll make a man out of you." There was something dark in the inflection and in the meaning behind the words, and Wilson felt a shiver pass through him that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Wilson looked out at the boats. There was a sloop tied up at the end of the dock, and he remembered how his father had taught him how to handle the ropes when he was a boy: his large hands on top of his son's sliding them over the rough braided texture, helping him haul the mainsail, then letting him handle the foresail on his own.

"You're the son my father wanted," House said softly, and Wilson turned to see him looking at him. "You could have made him happy. I never could."

Wilson shook his head and took a drink. "Sometimes I think nothing makes your father happy."

House smiled for just a moment, then it was gone. He shrugged. "At least my Mom would have been happy."

"Your mother _is _ happy," Wilson said. "You make her happy." He turned slightly toward House, but House was staring out at the water again.

"No I don't," he said. "She deserves better."

"Don't be an idiot," Wilson said. "Your Mom loves you."

"Yeah, well, she also loves my father." House drank down the rest of his beer and reached for another. "Maybe she just has lousy taste."


	12. When They Weren't Together

On Tuesdays, Blythe volunteered at the library. On Wednesdays, she'd have lunch with her sister. Thursdays she played bridge. Fridays she was part of a regular foursome, taking in nine holes of golf, followed by drinks at the clubhouse as their husbands finished up on the back nine.

And each day, there would be a moment when the conversation eased, and Blythe knew what would come next.

"Did I show you the pictures my daughter sent me?" someone would ask, then dig into her purse for the latest snapshots of her grandchildren. Someone else would follow a moment later, then someone else. Even Sarah couldn't resist the urge, bragging about how Tommy was doing in Little League.

"You should come to one of his games," she'd say, and Blythe would just nod and promise that she would.

They'd pass the photos around the table, each woman taking the time to comment on how handsome the boys looked, how cute the toddlers were, how precious the babies seemed to be.

Blythe knew the routine. She didn't mind it. She told herself that she wasn't jealous. She'd even told John they should go to one of her grandnephew's games.

"It'll be fun," she'd said. He just grunted in response.

But with each new group, Blythe knew the question would come up.

"And what about you? Do your children live near here?"

"We have one son," she'd say. "He's in New Jersey." Then she'd wait for the second half of the question. "No. No grandchildren."

"Not yet," she used to say once when they asked, and she'd smile. But she hadn't said that for years. Not since before Stacy left. She had never asked Greg about whether they would get married, or whether they planned on having children.

They had seemed happy with the way things were back then -- Greg had seemed happy at least -- so she told herself that she was happy with that. And she remembered how many times her own mother-in-law had asked when they would have another baby, how she hated the question, and dreaded seeing her knowing what was coming -- and how she kept it up until the day John finally pulled her aside, and explained that they couldn't have any more children.

Despite that, she once nearly found herself asking James if he ever planned to have children, but managed to cut herself off in time, instead turning the question in mid-sentence toward Greg.

"Do you ... do you know where Greg is this afternoon?"

"He's got his interviews today." James said. "For the new position. I'm sure he's mentioned it."

Blythe was quiet for a moment. "James, how long have you known my son?"

He chuckled. "Right," he said. "Greg's hiring another fellow. He received more donations for the department, so he's expanding it."

Blythe wondered why Greg hadn't mentioned that, but decided the reason probably wasn't important. He probably would just say that he didn't think she was interested.

But she was. She wanted to know more about what he did, about the lives he saved. Maybe, she thought, she'd understand him more. Maybe it would help her to help John understand his son. She couldn't quite silence the voice in the back of her head that told her she'd have finally something to brag about at those lunches.

Greg didn't seem to understand why she was curious. He'd sounded frustrated every time she pushed him for more details, but then couldn't understand the medical jargon. "People come in sick and I cure them," he finally said one day with a sigh.

That wasn't the way James put it whenever he brought up one of Greg's cases. He had sounded amazed when he'd mentioned it in an email, a woman with a cat allergy that everyone else thought was dying.

"He diagnosed her over the phone," James had written. "I still don't believe it."

"It wasn't complicated," Greg insisted when she brought it up. "I don't know why you'd be interested."

"I'm always interested," Blythe said.

Every time someone asked, she always said the same thing. "My son's a doctor. He specializes in infectious diseases and nephrology -- and diagnostics."

She wanted to be able to say more.

She could tell them that he was very well respected, though she wasn't certain why.

"Because he has a way of solving cases that no one else can," James explained one day.

"I understand that," Blythe said, "but I don't understand why that is."

James sighed. "Neither do I," he said. "He sees things differently. His brain works differently." He paused for just a moment. He was quieter when he spoke again. "I just know that it's something I can't do, or anyone else around here."

When Blythe asked Greg to explain it again, he was quiet for a moment. "Do you want to know what I do?" he finally asked. "Or do you want to be able to explain to others what I do?"

Blythe wasn't sure she could explain what she meant, so she just told him to forget about her question.

He didn't.

One day she opened a package from Greg. The padded envelope held a CD and a short note.

"This is what I do," he had written.

Blythe recognized the musician's name, and put it on the stereo, wondering if she could figure out what Greg was trying to say from the music. It was jazz, featuring a trumpet player whose music came out in a rich tone that filled the room.

She closed her eyes and let the music paint pictures in her mind of smoke-filled clubs and late Saturday nights that crept into early Sunday mornings. She wondered if Greg saw the same things in his mind, but couldn't tell what he was trying to tell her.

It was James who finally gave her the rest of the story, the reason behind the music and the note. James told her about the man everyone else was ready to give up for dead, whose fate had seemed hopeless, how Greg had refused to let him die, and about how Greg had cured him.

And Blythe understood her son just a little more.

She searched the magazines at the library and found a few articles about John Henry Giles' miracle cure. She even found Greg's name, followed by a statement that he had declined to comment for the story.

A month later, the mail brought a baseball card. Blythe didn't recognize the pitcher's name, but John did.

"He got in trouble for drugs," he said, and handed it back.

Blythe checked the sports pages for his name, finding a short item that he was expected to recover in time for spring training.

When the ticket stub for a political fundraiser showed up in the mail, she didn't have to search far. She'd already heard about how the man was being treated for "flu-like symptoms" at a New Jersey hospital.

When someone mentioned the politician at a library meeting, Blythe nearly spoke up, but didn't. "Pride goes before a fall," her mother had told her time after time when she was a girl. "Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back."

When Greg was little, she ignored her mother's advice and instead she told him to take pride in what he did --even if she couldn't bring herself to brag on his behalf.

But Greg didn't seem happy when he answered the phone that weekend. He was quiet.

"You should be proud, honey," she said.

"I am," he mumbled, then said he had to get off the phone. He didn't even bother making up an excuse.

"He's had a tough week," James said when Blythe called him on his cell phone. "We all have."

"What happened? I thought Greg saved the senator."

"He did," James said. He was quiet for a moment. "It's just ... office politics." She could hear him pacing, then heard him take a deep breath and blow it out. "I'll stop by and check in on him."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know." He paused. Blythe heard rustling in the background, and the sound of a door opening. "I want to see him myself anyway. Hell, who knows, maybe he can cheer me up."

---------------

"What have you been telling my mother?"

House leaned down onto Wilson's desk, the palm of his left hand placed over the papers that Wilson had been reading.

Wilson glanced up. "Nothing," he said.

"Of course you have."

"No, I haven't." Wilson yanked at the papers and they came loose as House lifted his hand. "I haven't spoken to your mother for a couple of weeks." He put them in a file, then swiveled his chair to the left to put them in a drawer. He paused with one hand on the handle, then turned to the right. He'd moved some of his files when he set up his office again after Vogler left. House had insisted that as long as he was making changes, he should rearrange his office.

"It's boring in here," House had said. "You need to spice up your life."

"I've had enough spice lately," Wilson had said, and put the fishing trophy back at its usual spot. He could still see the faint ring where it had sat for years, a darker spot surrounded by lighter wood where afternoon sun had lightened it.

"That's stress, not spice," House had said, and moved the trophy. "Never confuse the two."

Now Wilson opened the bottom drawer on the right, and dropped the file into its place. "What's wrong with your mother?"

House took a few steps away from the desk to look out the window. "She wants to come for a visit."

"And that would be ... bad?"

"Sure," House said. "If she comes, she'll bring my father."

Wilson leaned back in his chair. "You'll have to see him sooner or later," he said. "He's your father."

"I vote for later."

House hadn't even wanted to talk about his argument with John, what he'd said and what his father had said that night. After making a few veiled references to John's choices in punishments, he'd refused to discuss anything about his father at all -- as if he could somehow wish the man out of his life by ignoring his existence.

It had nearly been a year since that night, and this was the first time House had mentioned him to Wilson.

"Have you spoken to him at all?"

House stepped back from the window and sat in the middle of Wilson's couch. "Of course," he said.

"And when I say talking, I'm referring to something more than asking him to put your mother on the line when he answers the phone."

"Then I'd have to say 'no,'" House said. He spun his cane between his thumb and index finger and watched as the handle rotated clockwise, then counter clockwise.

Wilson watched the motion for a moment, trying to figure out if he could find some way of assessing House's mood by the speed of the cane's movement -- if he could come up with some kind of turmoil-to-twirl ratio.

"When does she want to come up?" Wilson asked.

"She hasn't set a date. I thought she'd been conspiring with you."

"She hasn't."

"But she will."

"But she hasn't."

"She will."

Wilson sighed and shrugged. "Maybe."

The cane stopped moving. House leaned back against the cushions and looked up at the ceiling. "And you'll tell her everything. Like always."

"Do you want me to not talk to your mother?"

House looked like he was going to say yes, then shook his head.

"Look, she calls and I talk to her, but usually all she asks about is you," Wilson said. "And she's your mother. If she wants to know something she's going to figure it out."

House looked over at him. "You tell your mother everything?"

Wilson sighed. "Of course not."

"Like how you spent two nights on my couch last month?"

"That wasn't important," Wilson said. "I tell her the important things."

"Such as?"

"Such as ..." Wilson wondered how the conversation had turned against him, and why House was avoiding his mother. "Have you told your mother that Stacy's back?"

House stared up at the ceiling again.

"You haven't, have you?"

"It's not important."

"Even_ you _don't believe that."

"It's coincidence, not fate or whatever else you may want to call it," House said. "She's only here because of her husband. Why would my mother care?"

Wilson didn't say anything and House finally glanced at him. He leaned forward again, the cane beginning its motion once more.

"She'll make a thing about it," House said. "She'll want to come up and see Stacy for herself, and make sure I'm not pining for her."

"So you don't want her to know," Wilson said. "But if she finds out on her own, she's going to be even more worried about why you didn't tell her."

"And she'll come for a visit," House said, "with him."

Wilson sighed and leaned forward. He placed his elbows on his desk. "So the question is, how do you let your Mom know about Stacy without have her freak out to the point she decides to book a flight?"

House nodded. He tapped his cane on the floor, then looked up at Wilson. "I nominate you to tell her," he said. "Got any ideas?"


	13. When John Took Blythe to Paris

Blythe was setting the table for dinner when she heard John's voice at the front door.

"I never knew the charm of spring." She looked up and stepped out into the living room to stare at him. Every time John attempted to sing it came out more as a slightly less monotone version of his speaking voice.

"I never met it face to face," he continued. He had a wide smile on his face. "I never knew my heart could sing."

"You can't sing, dear," Blythe said with a smile. "I thought we agreed that you weren't going to try again." John wrapped an arm around her waist, and took her hand.

"I never missed a warm embrace," he sang, and pulled her close. He stepped forward with his right foot, leading her through a simple box step. "'Til April in Paris."

"It's May in Pensacola," Blythe said.

John ignored her and kept singing. "Chestnuts in blossom."

She gave in to his mood and laughed as he guided her around the table.

"April in Paris. This is a feeling, that no one can ever reprise," he said, and released one hand to let her spin out toward the living room. When she twirled back toward him he pulled an envelope out of his back pocket.

"Happy anniversary," he said, and kissed her.

"It's not our anniversary until next month."

"I wanted to surprise you."

Blythe opened the envelope. Inside were reservations for a flight the next week and confirmation for a hotel room near the Champs Elysee.

She looked up at him.

"Surprise," John said. "It's one place that neither of us has ever been. I thought we could explore it together."

Blythe hugged him. "I love it," she said.

John pulled away slightly. "That's not the only surprise." He pointed to the flight arrangements.

Blythe read over the first page, seeing the morning flight out of Pensacola, a change of planes in Atlanta, then ... she smiled even wider. "We've got nine hours in Newark," she said.

John nodded. "That'll give us plenty of time to meet Greg for dinner," he said. "I know you've wanted to see him."

"Of course I have," she said. "And I know you have too."

John's smile faded slightly. "I don't know if he'll want to see me. We've barely spoken lately."

Blythe refused to listen to the part of her mind telling her that John could be right. She was happy, John was happy, and she told herself that Greg would be happy too. "I'll call and let him know."

Greg did sound happy when she told him about Paris.

"I used to think about going there," he said, but he was silent when she brought up the layover in Newark.

"You could meet us there," Blythe said, "or we could drive over to Princeton. We have plenty of time."

"I'll have to check my schedule," Greg said. "I may have something going on that week."

Blythe tried to hide her disappointment. "It's only for a few hours," she said. "Surely you can get away."

"I'll check," he repeated. She noticed that he never promised to try and make it.

Blythe didn't tell John that she was worried it wouldn't work out. She just let him think that it was just a matter of making final plans. She wasn't sure if he'd blame himself or blame Greg, but either way she couldn't face the thought of seeing the disappointment on his face, the sorrow that he'd try to hide in his eyes that he'd let things get so bad with his son.

"Call Wilson," John said, when he asked for a schedule, and she told him they didn't have one yet. "He'll come up with something."

But she didn't call James. He'd seemed to be taking on so much lately. He already had a full work load, and then had promised her last month that he'd keep at eye on Greg for her now that Stacy was back in town.

"Don't worry," he'd said. "She spends most of her time with her husband or in her office."

Blythe hadn't said anything about how worried she was for Greg, about how she knew how hard it had been for him when she left, about how she lay awake some nights wondering if he was managing to sleep knowing that Stacy was just a few miles away, lying alongside her new husband.

James knew her concerns as if he was reading her mind. Or maybe he had the same worries.

"It hasn't been easy, but he's handling this better than I'd thought he would," he said. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on him."

"You always do," Blythe said.

It didn't seem right to go to James now, to ask him to intervene again. Greg and John would have to learn to live with each other. Greg wasn't a little boy anymore. He hadn't been for a long time. Maybe it was time to let them find their own way to work out their differences.

Three days before their flight, Greg said he couldn't make it. "Look, I have a business dinner on Thursday night I can't get out of," he said.

"Honey, are you sure?" There was something in the tone of his voice that Blythe couldn't quite define, something that didn't sound right. "We haven't seen you for more than a year."

"I know, I really wanted to see you too," he said, then apologized and said he had to get off the phone.

Blythe stared the phone and told herself that she wasn't going to cry. Greg hadn't rejected them -- hadn't rejected her, she told herself. He simply had something else he needed to do. He had a reason why he couldn't make it. But then he always had something else, some excuse to avoid her, avoid them both.

She wondered what would happen if she told him she would come alone. What John would think if Greg said yes then. She wondered if she'd be forced to choose -- or if she could choose between them at all.

Blythe had always chosen John when Greg was young. John was her husband. They went where he went, following him without question -- and she'd even enjoyed each move. It was harder on Greg. It always was, and she'd seen him cry when he had to move away from friends when he was little, and then struggle to make new friends. By the time he was a teenager, he seemed to give up on friends completely, and satisfy himself with music or books or sports.

"It'll make him tough," John would say whenever she worried that their life was too hard on him -- or that John was too hard on him. "It'll be good for him. You'll see."

She still wanted a sign that John had been right -- and that she had been right to trust him. But Blythe knew she couldn't change the past. Now, staring at the phone, still hearing Greg's words, she wished again that she would have done something different, that she would have changed something.

Blythe felt a tear roll down her cheek and wiped it away.

She was pouring herself a cup of coffee when the phone rang.

"Blythe, it's James." She smiled when she heard his voice. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she said. "How are you?"

"Fine," he said. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming up?"

Blythe shook her head and wondered how long James had known. "I didn't want to bother you. It'll only be for a few hours, but it looks like we won't be stopping by after all."

"That's why I was calling. You really should come."

"I thought Greg had a meeting?"

"He does," James said, and hesitated for a moment. "We both do. But I can rearrange things so we can squeeze you in."

"That would be wonderful, but I don't want to be a bother."

"I insist on it," he said. He had a playful tone to his voice that made Blythe think there was more going on that she didn't know about. "But, you might have to put up with some extra people at dinner."

"That's fine." Blythe knew she should insist that James didn't need to change anything, but she didn't. "Who?"

"Greg's team," he said. "And maybe a few others."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." He chuckled slightly, and Blythe wondered what he was planning. "Just send me your flight information, and I'll make all the arrangements."

James first sent her the directions for a restaurant between Newark and Princeton, and wrote her that the dean of medicine would be joining them. "Dr. Cuddy," he wrote. "You've met her."

Just before they headed for the airport he called with a change of plans. "Greg's in the middle of a case," he said. "He might have problems getting away for very long. Do you mind coming all the way to Princeton?"

"Of course not," Blythe said as John carried her suitcase out to the car. "Should we meet at the hospital?"

"Call me when you land," he said. "We'll figure out things from there."

Nothing improved once they left for Princeton.

John followed familiar roads out of the airport. It was late spring in New Jersey, and Blythe saw lilacs in bloom, more than a month after the blossoms had faded in Florida.

James warned them that the patient was getting worse, and that Greg might not even get out of the hospital.

"But you should come," he said. "Maybe it'll do him good to take his mind off his case for a few minutes."

"How bad is the case?"

James sighed. "Bad. He's just a kid, and he's not going to make it."

Blythe felt her heart ache for the patient, for his family and for Greg. "Is there anything that could have been done for him?"

"No, not really. I don't think so." He paused and Blythe watched the scenery pass by her window, and saw the signs for the Princeton exit. "He was my patient first. I referred him to House." His voice was quieter, and Blythe noticed he hadn't called him "Greg" for her benefit. She was reminded that James must have seen dozens of patients die. Maybe hundreds. She wondered how hard that must be for him.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I know." He was silent for a moment longer. "Greg should be in his office when you get here. I'll try and catch up with you before you leave."

"Won't you be able to join us?"

"I need to check in with ... with another patient," he said. "I'll see you later."

Blythe thanked him again, then hung up.

An hour later, sitting in the cafeteria, she wondered if the trip had been a mistake. Greg had gone silent -- his usual defense mechanism when he was upset. Blythe wanted to believe it was just about his patient, but she knew better.

"I'd like to see your bike," she said, and Greg just nodded. "I remember the scooter you had in Japan."

"The one Dad made me sell?"

Blythe nodded, but rubbed her hand along his arm. "You knew you couldn't bring it back with us when you bought it," she reminded him.

It had been one of the few times that Greg had fought back against his father, arguing that he'd take a job that summer to earn the money to pay for shipping it. John had refused to even consider it.

But by the next summer, Greg had thrown himself into something new, announcing he wanted to become a doctor and reading up on every science book he could find at the library.

"Good," John had said. "The Marines need medics."

Greg hadn't argued with him, just made his own plans, far away from the military life -- away from them.

Blythe found herself remembering every time she'd said goodbye to him, even as she sat next to him in the cafeteria. "I've missed you," she said softly, and Greg turned to her.

"I know," he said. He didn't return the comment, but she saw his eyes soften when she smiled.

"We've spent more of our lives apart than together," she said. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

Greg nodded and turned away.

Blythe heard John's voice. She felt Greg's arm stiffen under her hand, and saw him tighten his hand into a fist, then release it. She smiled when she heard James' voice answering John.

"Hi," James said, and bent down to kiss Blythe's cheek. "Sorry I'm late."

Greg ignored his father. "How's the kid?"

James didn't take a seat, just stood next to Greg. "He's out of surgery, but ..." He shook his head. "Another bleed, and his white count is still falling."

"What about the Dad?"

He shrugged. "Physically, he's responding to treatment. Emotionally?" He shrugged.

"Is Chase up there?"

James nodded and Greg pushed himself up. "I should go check on them."

"Already?" Blythe winced at the desperate tone in her voice. "You've barely eaten."

Greg picked up his plate. "I'll finish it later."

Blythe stood and hugged him. "Have fun in Paris," he said.

"We will," John said. He stood at the end of the table, but didn't move toward Greg. Greg glanced at him once, then nodded.

"I'll walk them out," James said.

"You don't have to do that," Blythe said. "We know our way around."

"I know," James said.

Greg hugged her again, his right arm reaching around her back. Blythe felt his cane bump against the side of her body as he allowed it to hang loosely from his fingers. He didn't say anything, just let her go, turned and walked away.

---------------

Wilson checked his watch. It was nearly 11 o'clock. Blythe and John's flight would have left Newark an hour ago, and House had left the hospital nearly an hour before that. House hadn't shown up at home yet.

He buttoned his coat against the spring evening chill and leaned back against the brick. He should have been home hours ago himself, but he didn't feel like going home. Wilson told himself that he wanted to see House for himself, to know that he was all right, but knew that Julie would put her own spin on it.

"He's more important to you than I am," she'd say -- if she bothered to wait up for him.

Wilson knew that she was probably right, but somehow he just didn't care.

He shook his head and wondered if that was the same thing John had told himself, that he didn't care what his son thought of him. Wilson had spotted him standing in the hallways outside the cafeteria, looking through the doorway toward his wife and son.

"Guess I stuck my foot in my mouth again," he'd said when he saw Wilson.

Wilson had seen the set of House's shoulders as he sat at the table. They were stiff, and even Blythe's hand on his arm didn't seem to take off the edge.

"What did you say?" Wilson had guessed it could have been any of a dozen topics.

"It doesn't matter. Everything I say is wrong." He'd shook his head. "Maybe I should learn to keep my mouth shut."

Wilson thought to himself that John House wasn't the sort of man who was willing to keep his mouth shut, but he didn't say anything, just watched John as he watched his family. A few years ago he might have encouraged him to go inside, to speak to his son, to try and make everything right.

But Wilson knew it would take more than words to fix what had been broken. He wondered if it was possible to repair their relationship at all -- or if there had ever been anything between them worth repairing.

Wilson had watched House go, though he didn't actually expect House to go near the patient's room. Cameron told him later that House had been sitting alone, and she couldn't understand why. Wilson wasn't sure if he'd explained it at all -- or whether Cameron could even begin to understand how screwed up things could sometimes get in a family.

He sometimes had a hard time understanding it himself.

Wilson figured House had ridden off somewhere in the night to try and clear his mind. He'd left the hospital headed for home himself, but instead pulled off into a park near the river and watched the way the moon played on the water.

He thought about fishing trips with his father and how they'd sit next to the fire they built on the lake shore and talk into the night. They'd talk about life, about sports, about school. Wilson's father told him about the first time he met his mother on one of those nights. It was on a night like this that Wilson had first told his father he wanted to be a doctor.

Wilson couldn't picture John House ever sitting alongside his son on a quiet dark night -- at least not without a lesson on military tactics or a lecture on how to set up camp properly. He wondered if House even knew what he'd missed.

Wilson had heard the call of an owl, its voice echoing through the dark, then heard another one answer it from somewhere nearby.

He'd turned the car around and headed to House's place.

He'd sat on the front step for about fifteen minutes by the time he heard the motorcycle's high-pitched engine, then saw the single headlight round the corner into sight.

House brought the bike to a stop and turned off the motor. He flipped up his visor, but didn't move. "The bus stop's on the corner," he said.

"I'll keep that in mind if we finish off your Jameson's tonight."

House swung his leg up and over the bike, then reached for his cane. Wilson thought it looked like he'd smoothed out the motion just in the past few days. He took the five steps over to where Wilson stood. He stared at him, and Wilson thought maybe House would tell him to go home.

"I don't feel like talking."

"Neither do I."

House nodded slightly and slipped his key into the lock. Wilson followed him through the door. He unbuttoned his coat and tossed it onto a chair.

"You eat?"

Wilson shook his head and House tossed him a bag of chips.

House took two glasses out of the cupboard and put them on the table, then opened another cabinet. He paused with his hand in the air, then took out a bottle and put it on the table next to the glasses.

Wilson stared at the half-empty bottle of rum. "I thought you swore that stuff off after last time."

"Last time," House said as he poured the rum, "was purely medical. I needed death row guy to get really drunk, really fast."

"And this time?"

"Same reason -- minus death row guy and the medicine." House picked up his glass and held it out.

Wilson picked up his and tapped the rim of his glass against House's.

"To family," House said, and drank.


	14. When Wilson Lived With House

"Why don't I smell anything cooking?" House closed the door behind him and took a few steps into the apartment before he came to a stop.

"Because I haven't cooked," Wilson said.

House tossed his backpack onto the couch next to Wilson and unbuttoned his coat. "But you like cooking," he said, "and I like eating. I thought that balanced out nicely."

"I didn't want to cook today."

"But you like cooking," House repeated.

"Not every day."

House draped his coat over a chair and walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, looked inside, then leaned back to glare at Wilson. "There aren't even any leftovers."

"That's because you ate them all for lunch."

House closed the refrigerator and walked into the living room. "Are you going to be this annoying every time you talk to the divorce lawyer?"

Wilson gave a small shrug. "Well, if I go by the standard annoyance scale of one to, say, you, then I'd have to say yes."

He pointed the remote at the TV as the basketball game went to a commercial and began flipping through the channels. House walked past him and took the remote from Wilson's hand.

Wilson sighed and crossed his arms as House rushed past the news. "I'm doing you a favor by not cooking," he said. "Now you've got a chance to get reacquainted with the delivery guys."

House paused on wrestling, then continued past.

"They've been worried about you, you know," Wilson said. "I found the guy from Panda House on your doorstep this afternoon. He wanted to know if you'd been sick. He even had a card."

"So make him happy and order something for both of us," House said.

"Who's paying?"

House just raised his eyebrows.

"Right," Wilson said. "Stupid question."

Wilson waited a moment longer as House brought the channels back around to the basketball game. He pushed himself up off the couch, took the phone into the kitchen and pulled the take-out menu off from the refrigerator. He wasn't really hungry, but told himself he should eat something. He'd skipped lunch -- too anxious about his afternoon meeting with the attorney, the same one he'd used for his second divorce.

He'd considered finding someone else, so it wouldn't feel like he was just repeating the same mistakes again and again and again, only this time with Julie's name listed on the other side of the legal documents. In the end, he'd turned to Marty's name in his address book.

House had approved. "It's efficient," he'd said when he read Wilson's calendar. "He's already got your information on file. Think he gives a volume discount for frequent fliers?"

Wilson called in the order: vegetable stir fry for himself, Mongolian beef for House ...

"Don't forget the egg rolls," House called from the couch, and Wilson added the egg rolls to the order.

He hung up, then tossed the handset to House. "Call your mother," he said.

House ignored it. "Later," he said.

"Now."

"Why?"

"Because when she called I told her you'd just gone out to grab some food and that you'd be back any minute."

"You lied to my mother?"

Wilson sat on the couch again and stretched his legs onto the coffee table. "I had to tell her something," he said. "She called this afternoon and said she was planning to leave a message, but then got worried when I picked up the phone."

"She worries too much."

"She's a mother. Mothers always worry." Wilson watched as the Duke players ran down the shot clock and Krzyzewski shouted out plays from the sidelines. "I told her we both ducked out of a meeting and you'd gone out to grab some food." One of the players sank a three-point shot and Georgia Tech called a time out. "It was Thai, in case she asks."

"Why didn't you just tell her the truth?"

"What, tell her that my wife was so unhappy with me that she started having an affair so my third marriage is ending in divorce and I'm such a loser I'm sleeping on her son's couch?"

"Maybe not in those exact words, but yeah," House said.

Wilson leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He told himself again that he should have moved out days ago, after he'd first called Marty to set up the meeting, after he'd finally realized he was just putting off the inevitable -- after House made him realize that he was putting it off.

"I haven't even told my mother," he said. "Why would I want to tell yours?"

House shrugged. "Practice?"

Wilson snorted and shook his head.

"No, think about it." House took his legs off the table and turned toward Wilson. "Weddings have rehearsals, why not divorces?"

"Because ... because that makes no sense."

"Why not?"

"Did you practice your speech to your Mom about Stacy moving?"

"I didn't have to. You told her."

Wilson didn't bother correcting him. "Even if I did, why would I want to tell her about me, now?" He didn't add the second part of the question: Why would she care?

"Because she likes you, and she'll give you a sympathetic ear," House said. He turned toward the TV again and put his feet back up on the coffee table. "And because if you don't tell her, I will."

----------

Greg answered the phone when Blythe called on Saturday.

"I thought you were going to call me back on Thursday," Blythe said.

"I forgot," he said.

She'd told herself not to worry when James told her he'd just run out for a few minutes and Greg didn't call back.

On Friday, she called his office, but Dr. Cameron answered and said he was working in the clinic.

"Did you have a nice time in Europe?" she'd asked, and Blythe remembered how Dr. Cameron had smiled and held out her hand to John when they'd met. And how John had teased her and Greg at the same time.

John had apologized to her then, but not to Greg. "It was only a joke," he'd said when Blythe mentioned it on the way back to the airport. "Greg knew that."

But Blythe hadn't been so sure. She had seen the look on Greg's face then, the frustration that was clear to see when he'd left them in the cafeteria.

In Paris three days later, she caught her breath when she thought she saw Greg's face staring back at her from one of Van Gogh's self-portraits at the Musee d'Orsay: the angular lines of his face, the emotion captured even in stillness, and the haunted look in Van Gogh's eyes.

She shook her head, told herself that she was imagining things, but the images returned again and again as they traveled, and she found herself making connections between Van Gogh and Greg in her mind for the rest of the trip -- the misunderstood genius who died young, and her son. She told herself she was being silly, being melodramatic, seeing links that didn't exist. But that didn't stop her mind from making them.

In Arles, she pictured Greg sitting at one of the tables outside the cafe that Van Gogh had painted. In Saint-Remy, she looked out the window from Van Gogh's rooms in the asylum, and remembered how many times she had seen Greg staring out the windows in the weeks after his infarction. When John bought her sunflowers from the farmers' market, she cried, and told him it was because she was so happy.

She called him from the airport on their way home, as they waited for their connection in Atlanta.

"Did you try the snails?" he asked.

She laughed, happy to hear his voice, happy to hear him tease her. "If I did, I didn't know it," she said.

He'd laughed, and then John told her they were calling their flight number and she had to hang up.

"Love you," she'd told him.

"I love you too," he'd said, without any hesitation.

That night, in her own bed, was the first time in more than two weeks that she didn't dream of mad Dutch painters.

Life fell back into normal patterns. She went back to her volunteer work, her golf, her lunches, and she'd get the occasional cryptic package from Greg: a bicycling jersey, a fashion magazine, a DVD of the movie "The Great Escape."

John had popped it into the player. "Tell him thanks," he'd said.

Greg said it wasn't for his father. James had to provide the answer again.

"He's ... got a pet," he'd said. "A rat. He named it Steve McQueen."

Blythe looked in the living room where the actor was sitting with his back against a cell wall, throwing a ball against the other wall and catching it, throwing it and catching it, throwing it and catching it.

"Why did he get a rat?"

"It's complicated," James said, "but he's taking good care of it."

Sorting through her souvenirs from France, she'd come across a book that John had bought for her about Van Gogh in Provence. She hesitated for a moment before opening it, wondering what images would come flooding back into her mind. But she finally did, flipping through the pages quickly at first, then slowing down and taking her time. She no longer saw echoes of Greg on every page.

Blythe wondered why, then turned to a chapter on his friendship with Gaugin, and she knew why -- Greg had James. Van Gogh had no one when he needed someone the most.

She turned another page and looked at the painting reproduced there, another one from Arles, another late night cafe, but this one with a pool table. She could still picture Greg there, but now she could imagine James with him, the two of them in the middle of a game, both of them laughing.

Greg told her when Stacy left town with her husband. "It was no big deal," he said, "but I didn't want you to hear it from someone else and get the wrong idea."

Blythe knew that something big must have happened, but she didn't push Greg for more information, and she didn't call James. She'd let Greg keep this secret.

She hadn't been surprised when James answered the phone when she'd called Greg two weeks ago, but didn't know what to think when he was alone at Greg's place on Thursday, even though he'd assured her he was just waiting for her son.

Now she could hear someone else in the background even as she talked to Greg, and she knew it was James without even hearing his voice.

"I thought you were making pancakes," Greg said on the other end of the line, and it took Blythe a second to realize he was talking to James.

"I thought it'd be nice to have something different for a change." James' voice was faint in the background, but Blythe could still make it out.

She wondered if this meant that James had fought with Julie again. For his sake, she hoped not, but then she reminded herself that she'd never met Julie. She'd always assumed she must be good for James, but the few times Greg mentioned her, he didn't sound pleased.

"I like pancakes," Greg was saying, and Blythe remembered how he'd loved them when he was a boy.

"Then you can make them," James said, "otherwise, don't complain about what I make."

"Tell you what. You talk to my mother, and I won't complain about anything you cook for one day."

"Greg, James doesn't have to talk to me," Blythe said.

"Yes he does."

She heard nothing but the sound of metal on metal -- something heavy. Blythe guessed it was a frying pan being placed on the stove.

"Three days," James said.

"Greg," Blythe began, but he ignored her.

"Two," Greg told James.

It was silent on the other end of the line for a moment, then Blythe heard James' voice. "Deal," he said.

"Mom, Wilson wants to talk to you," Greg said, and Blythe heard the phone pass from one hand to another.

"Hi Blythe," James said. "Do you have a minute to talk? I ..." he paused for a moment, and she heard the sounds of his steps, as he moved away from the kitchen -- and away from Greg, she guessed. "I have something to tell you."


	15. When Greg Was Shot

Blythe knew something was wrong as soon as she heard James' voice.

He said just three words -- "Blythe, it's James" -- the same words he'd use at the start of almost every call, but she knew it was something bad this time. It wasn't the tone of his voice, though it was soft and shaken, reminding her of the way he'd sounded when Greg got sick. It wasn't the time of day, though he rarely called her in the middle of the week.

Something had felt off all day long. The air felt heavy and thick like it sometimes did before a hurricane, although it was the wrong season, and the skies were clear.

Blythe hadn't said anything to John. He would have told her it was just her imagination. Greg would have said the same thing if she'd called him, and he would have complained about idiots who believe in superstitions.

"They're not omens," he'd said one time. "They're just connections that an irrational mind makes to try and explain something that he doesn't understand."

Now she sat and held onto the kitchen table as James told what had happened. Her mind raced from one question to another, trying to figure out what to ask first until he told her the one thing she really wanted to know.

"He'll be all right," he said. "His team was there, and they were able to start treatment right away. If they weren't there ..." His voice faded away, but Blythe knew what he'd meant to say.

"How badly ..." she started, but couldn't finish the question before her mind jumped again. "Where ... how?"

James explained what he could, that the bullet that hit Greg's stomach didn't hit anything that couldn't be repaired, and repeated himself as he said that the team managed to save him from the damage done to the shot to his neck. He couldn't say much about who had done it, or why.

"I don't know," he said. "Nobody knows. He just came in to the conference room, asked for Dr. House, and ..." His voice faded away again, and Blythe could hear him breathing heavily. She wondered if he was crying, or trying not to. "Then he left," he said after a few moments.

First Blythe tried to imagine the scene, picturing Greg in his office, maybe with a cup of coffee in his hand. But once the scene began to play itself out, she couldn't stop the images. She felt like she was trapped in a bad movie, forced to watch the killer stalking his victim. She stood and stepped up to the window, forcing herself to see something else: the flowers, the sky, the grass.

She tried to hold back the sob that was suddenly there, deep in her chest, aching for release. She tried to swallow it down, but it broke free. It was followed by another, then another.

James was quiet on the other end of the phone as she fought for control. She knew he probably had places he needed to be, but he said nothing.

"Why him?" she finally asked. "Why is it always him?"

"I don't know," he said quietly.

Blythe brushed the tears from her cheeks and looked out the window again. The roses she had planted a year ago were in bloom -- dark red against the green of the grass and blue of the sky, but she couldn't look at them without comparing their color to blood. She turned away from the window.

"Tell him I'm coming," she said.

"I will." 

She didn't wait for John to make the arrangements. John had refused to get a cell phone, figuring he didn't need one if she had one, so she called the club and told them to get him a message, then began packing.

John was there in twenty minutes, his golf glove still on his right hand. He stood in silence in the middle of the living room as she told him. For a moment, she thought he was going to accuse her of making it all up.

"They have security there," he said. "Someone couldn't just walk in and ..." He shook his head.

Blythe stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around him. She could feel him shaking and he pulled her close. "He's going to be all right," she said.

"He's going to be all right," he repeated. She wondered if he was trying to convince her, or himself.

-------------

Wilson stood with his back to the wall, watching Blythe as she spoke to House, and watching John as he watched his wife and son, and said nothing.

House was silent too. Groggy from the medications, exhausted by the trauma and the surgery, held together with gauze and stitches, he could do little more than blink in response, but he'd been awake when his parents arrived, and had nodded slightly when Wilson asked if he could handle seeing his mother for a minute or two.

Wilson hadn't mentioned that John was there too, and House hadn't even looked at his father.

Wilson stifled a yawn. It seemed like he could barely remember waking up that morning, getting to work, seeing patients, then lunch with House. House had been complaining about the clinic schedule. Cuddy had him working Thursday and Friday afternoons.

"No one wants to spend the weekend sick, but their own doctors don't have any office hours available, so where do they come?" he'd asked.

Wilson had taken a bite of his salad, trying to finish it before House would make a move to steal his black olives. "I'll take a wild guess and say: here."

House nodded. "Bring us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to wheeze free."

House picked up his fork and took aim at Wilson's plate. "I've got to find something that'll keep me out of there for the next two days."

Wilson had been on the second floor with a patient when he heard someone shouting out in the hallway about a shooting. He'd assumed it was a just a lousy joke until a security guard ran down the hall, shouting at everyone to stay in their rooms.

Then his beeper went off.

House was unconscious when Wilson got there. He saw him for just a minute, rushing alongside the gurney as they wheeled him into surgery. He'd already been intubated, and a surgical resident had one hand tight on his neck, his fingers slick with blood but clamped down tight against pale skin, holding shut the damaged vein.

Cameron had told him and Cuddy that House managed to say a few words, and even mocked her for trying to reassure him. Her hands were trembling, and she began scrubbing them on her lab coat, smearing House's blood over the white cotton.

Chase had followed the surgical team into the OR. He hadn't asked anyone for permission to scrub in, and no one stopped him.

Foreman paced in front of the operating room doors, then slammed his hand against a wall. He leaned his head against the concrete, then pushed himself away and announced he was going to go find the son of a bitch.

Cuddy stepped in front of him. "The police are already looking for him," she said. "We don't want to get in their way."

"Cops are idiots," Foreman said. "I need to do something." His voice had gone loud, almost becoming a shout. He shook his head and managed to quiet himself, to pull his emotions back somewhere inside. "We just stood there," he said, "we just stood there and didn't do anything."

"He had a gun," Wilson said. "There wasn't anything you could do."

"I know that," Foreman said. "I know." He looked down at the floor. "I need to do something now."

He looked up. "I'll check on the patient."

"What patient?" Wilson asked.

"House's," Foreman said.

Cameron looked up. "We can't ..." she paused. "We don't even know his name. The file's in the conference room."

"How hard can it be to find a guy in the clinic with a swollen tongue?" Foreman asked. He took a few steps down the hall, then turned back toward Cameron. "You coming?"

She shook her head.

"You'll want to change first," Cuddy said softly, and Foreman looked down at his own stained clothes. The knees of his pants were damp, and Wilson guessed he'd kneeled down next to House at some point.

Foreman nodded, and headed to the locker rooms.

Wilson's legs suddenly felt weak, and he sat next to Cameron on the bench. He looked up at Cuddy and wondered how she managed to keep moving, then wondered what would happen when she actually did stop moving.

Cameron leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "He said something about ketamine," she said. She looked off to the right, as if she could picture something there -- picture House there, telling her something. "He said to tell Cuddy he wanted the ketamine." She looked up. "Is that supposed to make sense?"

Cuddy shook her head. "No," she said. She looked at Wilson. "Does it make sense to you?"

Wilson shrugged. "We can ask him later," he said, hoping that it sounded like he believed House would wake up, and not betray his fears that he never would.

He hadn't left the bench until the head of the vascular team emerged and pronounced House's jugular repaired.

A second team had already scrubbed in, ready now to tackle the abdominal wound. Chase had been the one to step out and tell them that the damage wasn't as bad as they had feared, then he went back inside.

Cameron said she was going to find Foreman and tell him, and headed toward the clinic. She'd showered and changed at some point after the surgery began, and her damp hair was pulled back in a ponytail that bounced against her shoulders as she jogged down the hall.

Cuddy finally sat, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. She had been pulled away again and again to talk to security, to talk to the police, to talk to doctors, to talk to the media relations spokesman. Each time she'd gone only a few feet down the hall, always within earshot.

"I should call his folks," Wilson said.

Cuddy looked up. "I should probably do that," she said.

"No. You've done enough."

Cuddy looked away from him and toward the OR doors. "No I haven't."

Wilson sat next to her. "Don't blame yourself."

"I don't," she said, but Wilson didn't think she sounded sure of that.

He put a hand on her knee. He could feel shaking under his hand, but wasn't sure if it was coming from him, or from her. "You should take a few minutes," he said. "Sneak up to the roof and get some fresh air, or go yell at some med student."

She smiled a little and turned back toward him. "Thanks," she said, "but I've got things I need to do." She stood again, then looked back at him and shrugged. "Being busy keeps me from thinking too much about ... about everything I can't do," she sighed, "and about everything I haven't done."

House's office and the diagnostics room were sealed off with yellow tape when he finally made it up there, once House was out of surgery. Wilson stared past it to see the figures inside who seemed to be collecting one of everything inside the glass walls: papers, case notes, books. Someone picked up one of the red mugs from the table and put it in a plastic bag.

Wilson jumped as a camera flash went off, capturing the white board on the floor and one of the shelves that had been pushed out of place. He reached for the door as someone picked up House's cane.

"You can't go in there, sir." A uniformed officer stood next to the door, his hand held out in front of Wilson.

"They're his things," Wilson said, still watching the men and women inside. "He needs them."

"He'll get them back," the man said. His voice was quieter, but his arm still blocked the entrance.

Wilson had nodded slightly, then took a step back from the glass, turned away and went to his office.

It had taken him more than ten minutes to calm himself enough to find Blythe's number, then he'd misdialed three times before he finally made the connection.

After he'd hung up, Wilson turned on his computer and started searching for ketamine. He knew House was thinking about something specific. House probably knew exactly what he wanted, even if one else did.

He found a rough translation about a German study and printed it out to read while he sat next to House's bed.

When House woke from the anesthesia, he'd looked confused. He'd stared at the ceiling, then over at Wilson. He opened his mouth to say something.

"Don't," Wilson warned. "I know it goes against your nature, but it'll be better if you don't say anything for a few hours."

House closed his mouth and raised his eyebrows at Wilson.

"You remember what happened?"

House nodded slightly, then winced. He reached up to touch the bandage around his throat.

"The vascular guys are going to be pissed if you screw up their work," Wilson said.

House waved his hand in Wilson's direction. His middle finger was slightly raised. Wilson smiled.

House looked him in the eye and carefully mouthed the word "ketamine."

Wilson nodded. "The German study?"

House didn't nod, but Wilson could read the answer in his eyes.

"We still need a little time to look it over," he said, "and you can use some time to get stronger before we do anything."

House raised his hand again and Wilson put his hand on House's shoulder.

"Not long," he said. "Just give us a few days, all right?"

House blinked and then blinked again, longer this time.

"You get some rest," Wilson said. "I called your Mom. They're on their way here."

House stared at him, then rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I had to tell her. Believe it or not, shootings in hospitals aren't that common. It's better that she heard it from me than from CNN."

House shrugged, then closed his eyes again.

"I'll see you later," Wilson said.

House had woken twice more through the evening, but now, after a few minutes with his parents, he was fighting to stay awake and Wilson stepped forward and nodded toward Blythe.

"We should let him rest," he said, and she glanced at him and nodded. John stood at the door, watching as she kissed House's forehead, then stepped away.

Wilson watched House drop into a deep sleep, then slid the door closed. He turned to Blythe and John.

"You must be tired," he said.

"So are you," Blythe said. She stepped up and hugged him, holding tighter to him than Wilson could remember. He squeezed her back.

"Have you got a hotel?"

Blythe nodded.

Wilson turned toward the elevator at the far end of the hall. "I'll walk you out," he said. He wanted to make sure they didn't try to stop by House's office.

There was a police officer at the nurse's station, keeping watch on House's room. Blythe came to a stop when she saw him.

"It's just a precaution," Wilson said, and touched her elbow to lead her away.

They were all quiet in the elevator, and Wilson watched the numbers change from the second floor to the first. He yawned again. He was too tired to drive to his hotel. Maybe he'd just sleep in his office tonight. But that would mean spending the night just around the corner from the conference room, and he didn't know if he could do that.

Maybe he'd just bunk down in the on-call room for a couple of hours. The residents wouldn't dare bother him, and he'd still be close if House needed him.

The elevator door opened and he waited for Blythe and John to walk into the lobby first. There were no patients, only more police. They'd claimed the area as their command center within moments of their arrival, Cuddy had said. There were a half-dozen of them lounging around the room, drinking coffee, eating sandwiches. He clenched his jaw when he heard someone laugh, fighting to keep himself from yelling at them to get out there, to find the guy.

"So what did he do anyway?" It was the first time John had spoken since they arrived. His voice was harsh and Wilson could hear the anger behind his words.

"Who, the shooter?" Wilson shrugged toward the cops. "Ask them."

"No," John said. "What did Greg do to piss this guy off in the first place?"

Wilson grabbed John's shoulder and swung him around to face him. "Don't," he said. He felt his own anger and frustration and worry rise, and he didn't even try to stamp it down. It was too close to the surface, and ready to break. "Don't say another word."

"I just want to know ..."

"You just want to blame him, like always." Wilson gripped John's shoulder tighter. He knew he shouldn't say anything. He knew patients' families often said the wrong thing. He knew that you shouldn't judge them. He knew he didn't know everything that had happened between House and his father, but he knew enough. And right now, he didn't care about what he should do.

"I'm not blaming ..."

"Yes, you are. And this is not his fault. Nothing here has been his fault. None of it has ever been his fault."

John reached up and pushed Wilson's hand away. Wilson was surprised by his strength, but knew he shouldn't have been. He may have been an old man, but he was still a Marine. "I'm just trying to make sense of all this," John said.

"A crazy man with a gun came in here and shot your son twice, for no reason," Wilson said. He knew he was shouting, but couldn't stop himself. "You can't make sense of that no matter how much you may wish you could twist the facts for your own satisfaction."

Wilson could see a couple of the cops moving in their direction and he stepped back and put his hands on his hips. He took a deep breath and tried to latch on to some kind of control.

"John, it's been a long day." Blythe's voice was quiet. She seemed to occupy the only calm spot in the room. "I know you're worried. We all are."

The cops slowed down and came to a stop, waiting to see how things played out.

Blythe had one hand on her husband's arm. "Getting angry isn't going to help anything."

Wilson noticed she hadn't said anything to him, and he worried that he'd upset her. Maybe she couldn't' stand to look at him. He didn't care about John, but Blythe didn't deserve any of this. It seemed like she was always caught in the middle.

"Let's go to the hotel and get some sleep," Blythe said to her husband.

John finally nodded and took her hand. Wilson could still see the anger on his face, but he wasn't sure if the man was mad only at him or the entire world.

Then Blythe turned to Wilson and gave him a slight smile. "You should get some sleep too, James," she said, and reached out with her other hand to squeeze his arm for a moment. "Greg's going to need you," she said. "We all will."


	16. When Blythe Met Steve McQueen

"He's cute, but not exactly the ideal image I had for a grandchild at this stage in my life." Blythe looked up from the cage and smiled. James chuckled.

"He wasn't my ideal image of a roommate either, something about listening to him run on a squeaking wheel all night got on my nerves." James reached into the cupboard above the cage and pulled out a bag of dry rat food and poured some of the pellets into a dish. "Greg didn't want him in his bedroom for the same reason."

"But the kitchen?"

James shrugged. "It was a compromise," he said. "Greg agreed to keep him on this side of the room, and I agreed to do all the cooking on the other side."

He opened the door and slid the dish into the cage, then closed it again.

"I didn't know you cooked," Blythe said. She watched the way James moved around Greg's kitchen now, how he knew which drawers held silverware, the way he maneuvered around the butcher block for a knife, and how he knew that the mug that had been on the dish drainer belonged in the gap on the second shelf of the cupboard, not the first. She could tell he felt at home here, in this space.

"I didn't really tell anyone about it," James said. "It was just something I did for myself."

And for Greg, Blythe thought. She remembered now the discussion she'd heard between Greg and James, months ago, when they'd argued about breakfast. She told herself she should have picked up on the clues then.

James took the water bottle from the cage and dumped what was left in the sink and filled it. Blythe watched for a moment, then reached one finger through the wires. The rat's fur felt softer than she'd expected, but he bolted to the other side of the cage at her touch.

"He's still not used to people," James said, and set the water bottle in place. "He tolerates Greg -- and me, I suppose, but just because he knows I'll feed him."

Greg had told James to check in on Steve. His voice still wasn't much more than a harsh rasp, and hearing it made Blythe's own throat tighten in sympathy. James had assured her that his voice would return to normal.

"His throat has been through a lot, just like the rest of him: trauma, bruising, swelling," James had said, while Greg nodded in agreement. "It's only been two days. He just needs to give it a rest." He'd turned to Greg for that last part, and Greg rolled his eyes.

"I'd be giving it a rest now if you and Cuddy weren't being so cautious," he'd said.

"One more day -- two, at the most." James gestured toward the IV bags hanging just over and behind Greg's head. "These aren't exactly the ideal conditions they mentioned in the study."

"Start the ketamine, and we can get rid of the morphine," Greg said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "That'll make you happier."

James had just turned away. Blythe hadn't been able to read his emotions then, and it wasn't any better now. She watched as he opened the refrigerator and took out an apple and picked up the knife.

He glanced over at her and shrugged. "Steve likes apples," he explained, and opened the door to the cage. They both watched the rat gnaw on the fruit and James smiled at Blythe. "Sometimes I wonder if he realizes how good he's got it now, compared to that attic."

"Attic?" Blythe backed away from the cage. "He didn't get him at a pet store?"

"Umm, no." James squinted and looked embarrassed. "But he's healthy ... well, he's healthy now."

"Maybe I don't want to know."

James smiled. "Maybe."

He reached his own finger through the cage and stroked the rat's fur a few times. James was right. It didn't seem to mind his soft touch. Finally James turned and opened the refrigerator. "I should probably clean this out," he said. "Everything's going to go bad." He turned to Blythe. "Do you mind if I do it now?"

"Of course not," she said. "John won't be expecting me for a while. Would you like some help?"

"No, I'm fine." He nodded toward the living room. "Make yourself comfortable."

Blythe walked into the other room, but didn't sit. The room seemed stuffy, and the air was stale, making the entire apartment seem empty and lonely.

She walked past the piano and to the window, pulled open a blind, then unlocked and pushed open the window. A cool breeze blew in. It was still spring in Princeton, the temperatures swinging wildly from the 70s to the 30s just in the two days they'd been there. She could see the light green of fresh leaves covering the tree branches in front Greg's building.

Blythe turned back into the room and watched dust motes racing through shafts of sunshine, pushed along by the blast of fresh air. She moved over to the next window and opened it too.

She closed her eyes and tried to let the breeze blow through the tangled thoughts in her mind. She had barely slept the first night in the uncomfortable hotel bed. Every time she would begin to drift into sleep, she was woken by the same nightmare, of someone sneaking past the police and into Greg's room, someone in the shadows who no one saw and no one heard and Greg, unable to call for help.

Even John was restless that night, and she knew he wished he were out there, somewhere, doing something -- anything -- rather than just watching and waiting. John had never been patient, had never been happy standing by while others worked. It was why he'd fought an office job for so long, and why he'd lose patience with Greg when he was a boy, whenever he tried to teach him something new.

"You're doing it wrong," John would say, and take the hammer or the screwdriver or the pliers out of Greg's small hand.

"Let him do it," Blythe would tell him. "He can learn from his mistakes."

"It's faster if I do it myself," he'd say, and Greg would step aside and stare down at the ground.

Blythe wondered sometimes if that was the reason John always felt out of place in Princeton -- or in Baltimore or Chicago or Pittsburgh or anyplace else Greg had lived. There was no place for him in Greg's world. He had no role, no required duties. There was nothing for him to do.

When Greg was sick, John had seemed lost, with nothing there that he could fix. So he had gone back to the life he knew, the one where he was needed, the one where he was in control.

But now he had no job to return to, and there was nothing here for him to pour his energy into.

He'd seemed relieved this afternoon when Blythe told him that she could use a sweater, or maybe a jacket since she had forgotten to pack anything warm. John may have known that it was just an excuse to give him something that would keep him busy, but he didn't complain. Instead he put together a list of anything they could need for at least a week or more.

He'd left Greg's room happy to have a job, to have something to do, but Blythe knew his good mood wouldn't last for long, and they all had a long way to go.

James had warned them that it could be another three days until Greg was strong enough to begin the treatment that he wanted -- and another five days of waiting once that began. Blythe still wasn't sure she understood it all, but she wanted to be there for him this time -- for all of it. And so did John.

She just wasn't sure how well they'd hold together waiting until they knew what would come after that. All she had been able to do so far was to get them through each day as it came, trying to find something that would occupy her hands and distract her mind.

Blythe looked into the kitchen and saw James carrying containers across the room and into the garbage. She glanced around the living room and saw the stacks of magazines and books splayed across the coffee table. There was a layer of dust on the piano, and wadded napkins on an end table that apparently had never made it into the garbage.

She put her purse on the couch and selected a few magazines to take to the hospital. She picked up a book and found a spot on the shelf where it belonged. She picked up the napkins and took them into the kitchen. James had pulled the garbage can out into the middle of the room. The cabinet under the sink was open and she spotted a bucket filled with dust rags, sponges and other cleaning supplies. She pulled it out.

"You don't have to do that," James said.

"I know," she said.

It was quiet in the kitchen except for a faint squeaking noise from the far side of the room. Blythe looked over and saw Steve moving slowly on his wheel inside the cage -- going nowhere, but gradually picking up speed. She looked down at the bucket in her hand.

"I'm no better than John," she said. "Keeping busy is something we do to help the time pass." She smiled and looked over at the cage. "Even Steve knows that." She nodded at James, a nearly empty milk carton in his hand. "And so do you."

-----------

Wilson tied the garbage bag shut and carried it into the living room. The air was fresher than it had been when they first got there, and now there was a faint scent of lemon from the cleaner Blythe had used. It mixed with the smells brought in through the open window: fresh grass, new flowers and the steak that one of House's neighbors was grilling out on a porch.

It smelled good, and Wilson wished he could just sit and take it all in, but Blythe was right. He had to keep busy, and it felt good to get something done, even if it was something as simple as cleaning up House's kitchen.

Blythe was making her way down one of the bookshelves, wiping away dust that Wilson guessed had been there since he'd moved out, and since Lady had left for her new job. Blythe looked up at him as he passed through.

"I'll be right back," he said, and let himself out the door. The building's garbage dumpster was hidden out of view, around the back of the building and Wilson followed the familiar steps out the door and around the building.

When House had first moved in, he'd just handed Wilson some empty boxes and ordered him to throw them out. A week later, it had been raining, and Wilson had offered to take out the trash. The next time House had said he was tired, and he'd do it later, so Wilson took the garbage out again.

Wilson somehow had fallen into a routine, and it never changed. Maybe, he thought as he turned into the alley, Blythe was right, and he was just like Steve on his wheel, and cleaning up after House somehow became something he did to keep busy, to pass the time.

He lifted the lid and tossed the bag up and inside. Maybe that could change, he thought. Maybe House would be able to take care of this himself soon -- if the ketamine actually worked -- and if the treatment didn't just make things worse.

He had tried to ignore everything that could go wrong -- not just the potential medical side effects, but how House would react if it didn't work. House had confessed about the morphine the day after the shootings, hissing out the details in a whisper: the dosage, the number of times he'd given himself an injection, the last time he'd taken it.

"You need to know," he'd said.

Wilson knew he'd meant that they should know so they could better tailor his dosages now to avoid another addiction, but he guessed that he also needed Wilson to understand just how bad things had gotten.

And, Wilson thought to himself as he rounded the corner of the building back onto the sidewalk, so that he'd understand how much worse things could get if they didn't take a chance on ketamine now.

He stopped for a minute before he got to the door and wondered how much House had suffered without saying anything at all, and how often he'd spent the night awake, reading or watching TV or pacing or playing video games just in his own attempt to somehow make time pass faster, like Steve on his wheel.

And Wilson had never known. Not really. He sighed. All those times he'd told Blythe about the signs she should watch for, and he'd ignored them himself.

He moved forward again, toward House's door. He still hadn't told Blythe or John how bad things had gotten, but Wilson could read the look in her eyes that said exactly how much she knew beyond what he had said. John had just turned away. He didn't ask any questions and his face hadn't given any hint of what he was thinking.

John had been quiet since the night they arrived, speaking only occasionally, and usually just to Blythe. He'd become the outsider in every discussion, in every room. He'd stand near the door while everyone else sat. He'd pace the hallway, while Blythe talked to House. He'd look out the window while everyone else looked at test results -- even as they explained them to Blythe.

Wilson wondered how much he should blame himself for that. John used to talk to him, used to give him a hint about what he was thinking. Now John had shut him out too. But every time Wilson remembered what the man had said, he could feel the embers of his own anger begin to build again, and he'd have to walk away before he said something else.

Wilson pushed open the door and stepped inside. Blythe had her back to the door , but glanced over at him as she dusted the piano. Wilson gave her a slight smile and went back into the kitchen. He checked on Steve one more time. The rat had gone back to his apple slices.

Wilson could hear Blythe in the other room, humming a tune that he couldn't name, but one that he'd heard House pick out on the piano a few times. It wasn't fair to her, he thought, to be divided between her husband and her son. Again. It wasn't fair that she ended up playing referee between himself and John.

Maybe, Wilson thought, he hadn't done anything to help House, but he could do something for House's mother.

He walked over to the doorway and stood for a moment, watching her.

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said, "about the other night."

She turned to look at him.

Wilson crossed his arms over his chest. "I was tired, and I took it out on you ," he said, "you and John."

Blythe shook her head. "You don't have anything to be sorry about," she said. "I love John, but I know he's not perfect." She looked down at the rag in her hands and folded it in half, then in half again. "He doesn't always think about what he's doing, and sometimes he says the wrong thing."

Her words took Wilson by surprise, and he remembered how many times House had surprised him -- his thoughts going in circles that no one else expected.

Blythe put the rag down and took two steps toward Wilson. She put a hand on his arm. "Sometimes, people need to tell him when he's wrong." She gave him a slight smile, just for a moment, then it was gone. "Sometimes it's good for him to remember that he's not always right."

She stepped away again, back to the piano. She seemed to be studying something in the dark wood, but Wilson couldn't see anything but her reflection in the newly polished surface.

"Sometimes I think he would have been a better man if someone," she paused for a moment, shook her head again, "if I," she said quietly, "if I would have challenged him more often."

Wilson found himself remembering every time that House had pushed his fellows to ask more questions, to make him justify his diagnosis, to force him to explain why he wanted tests. He wondered if House had ever wished that someone would have challenged John the same way, though he didn't think Blythe could have changed anything.

"I'm sure you did the best you could," Wilson said.

Blythe turned to him. "Thank you," she said.

They both stood quietly, the sounds from the street coming in through the open windows: passing cars, the idling engine of a bus at the corner, a snatch of a conversation between two girls. Wilson imagined for a moment that he could hear House's motorcycle off in the distance, then realized he was just wishing he could hear it -- the whine of its engine loud and obnoxious.

Blythe was the first to move. She picked up her rag and put it in the bucket with the other cleaning supplies. "I guess I'm done here," she said. "I should get back to John, and I should let you get back to everything you need to do."

She stepped into the kitchen, then turned back toward Wilson. "And we can let Steve get back to running on his wheel."

"Keeping busy," Wilson said quietly, "and helping time to pass."


	17. When Greg Got Better

The last time, Greg left the hospital on crutches. The last time, just crossing the room seemed to steal all of his energy. The last time, Stacy was waiting for him at home.

Now Blythe watched him argue with James, saying he didn't need his cane.

"I didn't need it yesterday," he said, "I don't need it today."

James sighed, but didn't budge. He stood in front of Greg, the cane held out between them. "Yesterday, you walked down the hall. Twice."

"And today I'm just walking down the hall once." Greg sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and Blythe thought he looked better than he had in weeks. He was still pale and too thin, but she'd seen him too many times in the past week in a pale hospital gown, lying flat against the white sheets, rarely moving, never responding.

They'd limited visits to his room as he slept, worried that too much noise and activity would disturb him.

"He'll know we're there?" Blythe had asked.

"It's a different kind of anesthesia," James had told them. He and Dr. Cuddy had sat with them in her office before they gave Greg the medicine that would put him to sleep for five days. "He'll be prone to dreams, to visions." James seemed to search for the right words, the ones that would tell them what was happening, but without confusing the issue with too many medical terms. Dr. Cuddy added her thoughts a few times, but let James do most of the talking.

"And this is supposed to be a good thing?" John hadn't been happy with the plan, especially when he heard that there were risks.

"Why risk anything?" he'd asked. "Why can't he just live with the way things are now?"

"It's ... " James seemed to struggle for his answer. "There are more risks to him continuing to take the pain medication he needs now," he finally said.

Blythe could see Dr. Cuddy watching James carefully. She'd seen the way Dr. Cuddy spoke to James, even how she'd balance her words with Greg -- gentle one moment, chiding him the next. Blythe could tell she cared about both Greg and James, even if she didn't say it.

"The risks with the Ketamine are minimal," Dr. Cuddy said.

John hadn't argued with them any more, though at night, away from the hospital, he told Blythe he was still worried. "It's not even legal here," he'd said.

"It's not illegal," Blythe had reminded him. "It just hasn't been studied here."

He'd stayed out of the room as Greg slept. No one had told him that he should – he hadn't even discussed it with Blythe – but they all seemed to know it would be for the best. Instead he'd stood at the door when Blythe was allowed to go in and sit quietly, always watching, never making a sound.

Greg hadn't let anyone other than James in the room after he woke up and was ready to take his first steps. When James slid the door open fifteen minutes later, Greg was back in bed, but Blythe saw the smile on his face. His eyes seemed clearer and she thought he even looked younger -- as if he'd shaken free of his nightmares during the past five days and was now coming back to life, becoming himself again.

Blythe had watched Greg walking the hall yesterday, judging his movement by every hint that James had ever given her. He was weak -- she could see that -- and his right leg wasn't as strong as the left. But he moved with confidence, seeming to gain more trust in his leg with every step.

"This is better?" John's words were halfway between a statement and a question, as if he didn't trust his own judgment, and she nodded.

"He should see more improvement," James had told them as he stood nearby. "Without the nerve pain, he may be able to get more use out of the remaining muscle."

"How much more?" John asked.

James shrugged. "We don't know." He took a few steps to join Greg and keep pace with him from the end of the hall back to his room. "I guess we're going to find out."

Blythe would have let Greg leave the hospital without the cane, but was sure that James knew best.

"Maybe you'd prefer the wheelchair," James told Greg. "I'll go get one, and, while I'm at it, maybe I could let a few people know, just so you can get a proper sendoff."

Greg took the cane from James' hand and stood. "Fine," he said. "Can we go now? I want to get out of here before Cameron shows up and gets all teary again."

James smiled. "Absolutely."

The halls were still quiet as Greg led the way, and most of the rooms were still dark. He'd insisted on leaving early, and Blythe suspected it was to avoid visits from Dr. Cameron and the others -- maybe so they wouldn't try to compare the way he moved now to how he'd moved before, just as she'd been doing, and John had been doing, and James, and even Dr. Cuddy, who she'd seen standing quietly in the hallway, never saying anything, but smiling as she watched.

John was waiting back at the hotel. He'd said that he wanted to be there for Greg, but James had quietly said that Greg wanted to keep things low key. "He doesn't want to make a scene," he'd said.

"He always wants to make a scene," John had argued. "He just wants to control it."

James picked his words carefully, trying to find some explanation that John would accept. None of them said what they knew was true, that Greg would be happier without John there. And they'd all agreed to it because they wanted Greg to be happy.

"Once he gets settled in at home," James had said, and John nodded.

"I'll bring lunch." Blythe saw the frustration in John's eyes, the sadness that hid behind his words every time he tried – and failed – to connect with Greg, ever since he was a boy, when Greg quit football, when Greg rejected the military career John had thought he'd have, when Greg didn't return John's phone calls.

But he did seem more relaxed now than he had around John, walking side-by-side with James, the two of them so close their shoulders brushed together every few steps.

"Pizza," he said, "and a couple of beers."

"Did you miss the part where you're still on a restricted diet?" James asked.

"Cuddy's being too cautious. I know what I'm doing."

"I'll remind you of that when you wake up at 2 a.m. with severe abdominal cramps."

Maybe things really could change now, she thought. Blythe watched as Greg came to a stop in front of the elevator door. He leaned on the cane, but it was a pose that seemed to be more out of habit than need. If he wasn't in pain, maybe he'd be happier. If he wasn't in pain, maybe he'd be willing to talk to John. Without pain, maybe they could finally come to some understanding.

Maybe, she thought, without pain Greg could finally find some peace. He hadn't known peace for so long that she'd begun to fear he'd never have it, would never be happy. Maybe, in some way, the shooting would somehow give him a fresh start – could even turn into something good.

The elevator door opened and they stepped inside, Greg leaning against the back wall. James put the bag down and hit the button for the lobby. Blythe saw him look over at Greg, quickly scanning him. She expected to see him him happy, his attitude reflecting the light tone he'd had all morning. He wasn't. She looked over at Greg again, but couldn't see whatever it was that worried James.

She reached a hand toward him, her fingers making brief contact with James' hand. He looked up at her and smiled, but didn't say anything, instead turning away to watch the numbers count down. He picked up the bag as the light showed the lobby level.

Maybe, Blythe thought as she stepped out of the elevator, if Greg wasn't in so much pain, James could finally be happy too.

-------------

"It's a beautiful day." Blythe turned from the windows and walked the few feet over to her son. "Come and take a walk with me."

Wilson looked over from the kitchen doorway. He saw a flash of emotions cross House's face in just an instant: curiosity, concern, worry, determination. Blythe held out her hand and he studied it, as if she held some secret in her palm.

"We won't go far," she said.

House hadn't been outside since he came home three days ago, except for a few brief steps to get the paper. He'd only walked the halls at the hospital after most of the staff had gone for the day. At home, he'd stayed inside to walk laps around the apartment as he built up his stamina, testing himself and his leg to see what he could do now that the pain was gone.

He hadn't been as strong as he'd hoped. The atrophied muscles hadn't improved just because there was no more pain. He'd been frustrated that first night at home, grumbling to Wilson that he wasn't tired, and didn't need to go to sleep even as he dozed off on the couch after eating some soup.

"Just humor me," Wilson had said and stood next to House to give him support if he needed it. "If you go sleep in your own bed, then I can sleep on the couch."

"I don't need a baby sitter," House said. "You can go find your own bed somewhere else." He pushed himself up, then stood still for a minute to settle himself on his feet before taking a step.

"We agreed," Wilson reminded him. "It's just for a couple of nights. Just to make sure."

"Just to make sure that the Ketamine doesn't wear off and I fall on my ass in the middle of the night," House said, and turned to the bedroom. "It's not going to happen."

He'd been right. Again. Nothing had happened, and Wilson went back to his hotel after the second night.

And House had stayed home. Walking, building up his strength -- testing himself, Wilson thought to himself -- where no one else would see if he failed.

"Just around the block," Blythe said. She still held her hand out. She and John would be leaving in the morning, heading back home. She hadn't wanted to leave, but seemed to accept it when Wilson pointed out that her son didn't want an audience for his recovery.

"Maybe he just wants to surprise me," she'd said.

Wilson thought that maybe he just didn't want to disappoint her either, though he didn't tell her that.

But now she stood there, waiting for her son to do just one thing for her. Wilson wasn't sure if House would accept her offer, and he wasn't certain if he should. On the one hand, it would be good for House to take a few steps outside his comfort zone, outside the walls where he was in control. And it would be good for him to show both himself and Blythe that he was getting better. Then maybe she'd be able to go home, feeling happy.

On the other hand ... Wilson looked over at House. He'd read the case studies of the times when the treatment failed. Of the person whose pain returned just from a minor bump. And there was a lot outside to bump into.

House reached out and took Blythe's hand. He stood. "I'll take it easy on you, and we'll go slow," he said.

House stepped forward. His limp wasn't as pronounced as it had been two weeks ago, before the shooting. He still favored his leg. There was still muscle missing that would never return, and he hadn't forgotten yet the habits he'd developed over more than five years to cope: the way he stepped off more strongly with his left leg, the way his hip tilted to one side, the way his spine seemed to curve, and even the way he carried his shoulders, as if still using his right arm to hold up half of his body.

But without the pain, he stepped more firmly on his right. His gait was beginning to lengthen on the right, and even the sole of his right shoe seemed to make even contact with the ground.

House rounded the couch. "Don't eat everything while we're gone," he said.

Wilson nodded. "The timer goes off in thirty minutes," he said. "If you're not back by then, we're starting without you."

As they moved to the door, Wilson caught sight of John sitting in the armchair at the end of the room. Blythe rested one hand on John's shoulder for a moment. He looked up and her and smiled for a moment, but didn't get up. He seemed to know, as Wilson did, that she wanted time alone with her son before they left.

Blythe took her cell phone out of her purse and put it in her pocket. "Just in case," she said.

House rolled his eyes, paused at the door for a moment, then drew a cane out of the umbrella stand. He opened the door and waited for Blythe then pulled it shut behind him.

Wilson looked over to see John looking at the closed door for a moment longer, then he turned back to the magazine spread across his lap. He'd brought them from home and had been working his way through each one: "Leatherneck," "Military History," "Marine Times." As he'd finished, he'd tossed each one onto the coffee table, forming a small pile that that Wilson thought seemed to mark off his own territory.

Wilson glanced back into the kitchen. The roast that Blythe had insisted on cooking for her own farewell dinner was in the oven. There was nothing there for him to do. He tossed the towel he'd been carrying onto the butcher block and walked over to the windows.

Blythe was right. It was a nice day. He looked out the window. He could see House and his mother as they made their way down the block. Blythe was doing the talking, her hands moving as she spoke. She occasionally reached over to lightly touch House's arm or hand. House looked over at her as she spoke, but otherwise Wilson could only see his back. They were moving slowly, but House didn't lean hard on the cane.

House stopped for a moment, and Wilson fought the urge to rush out the door and down the sidewalk to check on him. After a few moments, he stepped forward again, leading Blythe down the street.

"You don't think it'll work, do you?" John's voice seemed loud in the quiet of the room.

"What?" John hadn't spoken much even after they left the hospital, and it took Wilson a moment to figure out what he'd meant. "You mean the Ketamine treatment?"

John nodded.

"It'll work. It has worked. It's already worked," Wilson said. "He hasn't had any pain since he woke up."

"But you think it won't stick," John said. He put his magazine aside and stared at Wilson. "You're afraid it'll come back, and things will be just as bad -- maybe even worse."

Wilson stepped away from the window and tried not to think about what could happen when he wasn't watching, if he wasn't paying attention. "There's a good chance that won't happen."

"Chances are just as good that it will," John pointed out.

Wilson shook his head, though he knew John was right.

John sighed. He got up and went to the window. He looked out, though House and Blythe had already rounded the corner. "I'm worried too," he said, "but I haven't told Blythe. She wouldn't understand." He nodded at Wilson. "I think you do."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you know what it's like to expect the worst, even when you hope for the best," he said. "And once you start thinking about everything that can go wrong, you can't think of anything else."

Wilson turned away from John to look out the window, but in the other direction, waiting to see House when he'd make the turn toward home.

"When you expect the worst, everything looks bad," John said, "everything sounds bad." He shook his head and walked away from the window again. He picked up his magazine. "And no matter how good things may seem, you always know how much worse things can be."

John sat and Wilson tried to tell himself that he was wrong -- that he believed that the Ketamine really would work. But he knew that even if he could find a way to convince himself of that, he'd never be able to convince John that he was wrong.

"It's good that you think that way," John said, and Wilson glanced over at him again. "He needs someone to be ready to pick up the pieces, in case he's wrong, and Blythe's wrong and you and I are right."


	18. When Greg Got Worse

Blythe didn't worry when Greg didn't answer her call.

She didn't worry when he didn't return her call for two days.

When she called again, she got his answering machine again.

"Hi Honey, it's me," she said. "I was just calling to ..."

"Hi Mom."

"Oh, you're home." Blythe smiled at the sound of his voice. She tried to imagine his face as he spoke. During the past month, his voice had sounded lighter and she'd pictured him as a younger version of himself -- maybe as the man he'd been seven years ago, when he'd first gotten together with Stacy, when he was strong -- or maybe as he'd been on the day that she'd first met James.

James had been the one to tell her how Greg had been doing, how he was walking further, how he'd put away the cane.

"I just got in," Greg said. "I was out for a run."

Blythe sighed and shook her head. She got up and walked a few steps toward the kitchen when she stopped. Greg didn't have the mocking tone in his voice that she'd heard so many times. She turned around and stepped back.

"You're serious aren't you?" Blythe felt her heart leap. "You ran."

"Technically, I don't think you could call it running," he said. "More of a jog -- a fast limp, maybe."

"You ran," Blythe repeated. She wished John was home so she could call him. She wanted to tell someone, to run out into the street and shout the news to the first person she saw. "You ran."

Blythe suddenly found herself remembering the day Greg was born, the first time his eyes met hers and the way she had felt then that she would never be so happy again in her life. Now she was.

"You ran."

"You keep saying that like it was some kind of a miracle," Greg said. "It's not a miracle, it's science."

"I know," Blythe said, "but sometimes science gives us miracles, and maybe God gave us the science."

"Actually the Germans gave us the science, and I'm pretty sure biology and sex gave us the Germans."

Blythe laughed. "I'm not going to argue with you," she said.

She heard his soft chuckle on the other end of the phone. She wished she was there to see him -- to see him run, to see him smile, to see him happy. "Maybe we could come for another visit," she said.

Greg went silent.

"Not right now, but soon," she added.

Greg still didn't say anything. She wondered if he was trying to decide if a visit would be a good idea, or if he'd already decided against it, and just didn't know how to tell her that.

"Maybe I'll just come," she said. "Your father has signed up for a golf tournament. He might be too busy."

He hadn't, but Blythe knew she could explain it to John later, if Greg would just agree.

"I don't ... I don't think that's a good idea," Greg said finally. "You just got home."

"That's all right."

Greg was silent for a moment longer, then she heard him sigh. "Maybe sometime," he said. "Just not yet. I need time."

Time for what, Blythe wanted to ask him, but didn't. Instead she asked James.

"I think," James said, "I think he's testing himself right now, and he doesn't want anyone to see him until he has all the answers."

"But I've seen him before," Blythe said. "We both have."

John wasn't home yet. He still didn't know what Greg had done -- how well he was doing. Blythe still felt the joy, the excitement, but it was all tinged now with something that seemed to dull the emotions, like clouds that had streamed in off the Gulf and blocked the sun. Everything was still bright -- but not as bright as it had been. As it could be.

"John will be so happy for him," Blythe said. "He'll be so proud."

Blythe knew that James would understand just how important that could be for both John and Greg.

"You can talk him into it, can't you?"

She heard the squeak of James' desk chair on the other end of the line, and she could see him leaning back. Maybe he was staring at the ceiling or out the window as he tried to think of what to say.

"I don't know," he said.

"You could try."

Blythe heard the squeak again and she could picture him leaning forward now, his elbows on his desk.

"I don't ..." She heard James take a deep breath. "I don't think I should."

They were both silent for a moment. Blythe felt a tear roll down her cheek and she wiped it away. She hadn't realized she'd been crying.

"I'm sorry," James said.

"You're sure?" Blythe hated the fact that her voice trembled when she spoke. She hated feeling as if she was begging.

"Maybe he needs time to figure all this out, on his own," James said. His voice was quiet and Blythe wondered how often he'd had to run interference for Greg lately. How often he'd had to explain what was happening to other people who wanted to see him. She wondered if he'd allowed anyone from his team to visit.

"He lived with pain for a long time," James said. "He knows how to handle people seeing him like that. Maybe he has to learn what it's like to live without pain now for himself, before he's ready to let other people see him again"

"But maybe he'll be ready to see us again soon." Blythe hoped James agreed with her, and she smiled when he said yes.

"A few weeks," he said, "maybe a month, two months at the most."

"Good," Blythe said. "Good." She nodded, and realized she'd stopped crying -- just as quickly as she'd seemed to have started. "I'm sure you're right, James."

"I'll let you know, as soon as he's ready."

"Thank you," Blythe said. She looked out the window and smiled as she saw John's car pull into the parking lot. "I'm glad you're there, James. I can always trust you."

--------------

Wilson stood on the balcony and watched House walk down the sidewalk and across the parking lot. He was limping worse that had been that morning, worse than that afternoon, worse than even an hour ago when House had come into his office and laid Wilson's guilt out before him.

Wilson had been wrong about everything. He'd been wrong to tell Cuddy to lie. He'd been wrong to hope that every twinge had been temporary. He'd been wrong to think he could somehow cure House of his misery by making him humble, when it was clear now that the hubris was his.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. He'd been wrong to tell Blythe and John to wait. They should have seen House then, as he was -- even if it was just for a few weeks. He'd been wrong not to push House to see them.

He wondered what John would have thought if he'd seen his son just a few weeks ago: running, pushing himself harder and harder, testing every muscle. Maybe John would have understood then just how much House had been through. Maybe he'd finally find something to praise him about -- and even tell House himself.

Then he shook his head. Their problems had nothing to do with House's leg or his pain. It began long before the surgery or the drugs. John knew what he was like before the infarction, and had never found reason to praise him then, had never even tried. There was no reason to believe anything would have changed now.

Wilson heard the sound of House's motorcycle and looked across the parking lot to see him take off and speed out and onto the road. He'd been wrong to believe that the Ketamine really had worked -- that everything could be good again.

He shivered a little and rubbed his arms. It was getting chilly now that the sun had gone down. Sometime in the past few days, the seasons had somehow slipped from summer to fall without his seeming to notice it, and he missed the heat. He missed the sunny afternoons when House called him to brag about how far he'd gone, and the humid mornings when House woke him up to go golfing at some new spot.

One day they'd been halfway through the back nine when a thunderstorm blew in from the west without warning. Wilson had told him they needed to go back to the clubhouse, but House had laughed and he ran out onto the green, splashing through puddles.

"Don't be such a wuss," he'd said. "This won't last for long."

Wilson wondered now if he'd meant the storm, or if House had guessed then that the pain would return -- that all he'd have were a few weeks, just one short summer -- and he didn't want to waste any time.

He shivered again and told himself that he was just being melancholy. There was no way House could have known. Not for certain. There was no way anyone could have known that it would all go bad, so fast.

But Blythe and John should have seen him then.

Two days later, he tried not to stare at House's cane when House walked into his office. He'd noticed how easily House had picked up all his habits again when he had the cane in his hand: tapping it against furniture and the floor, twirling it, using it to emphasize every point. It was like it had never been gone -- as if it had been there the whole time, just waiting at the side of his desk for him to pick it up again.

"I need a favor," House said.

"Are you asking me for a favor or demanding one?"

"Does it matter?"

Wilson shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Depends on what it is."

House didn't sit, just walked over to the balcony door and stared out. "I need you to call her," he said. "You need to tell her."

"House, no." Wilson knew who House meant without saying her name. "I can't."

"Are you saying my mother doesn't need to know?"

"Of course she should," Wilson said. "Just ... she should hear it from you."

"But you're so good at giving people bad news." House turned away from the window and took two steps toward Wilson. He planted his cane between his legs. He placed both hands on the handle and leaned forward -- another old habit that had returned, Wilson thought. "This should be second nature for you."

"House ..."

"I'll give you ten bucks, even if she doesn't thank you."

"Don't make me do this."

"Why not? You owe me."

Wilson shook his head. "Because," he said, "because I've screwed up everything else lately."

House raised his eyebrows. "And that's why you owe me."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. He had no idea what he'd say, no idea what he could tell Blythe that wouldn't make things worse. She'd only worry if she heard the news from him, worry that her son was too angry, too scared, too upset to call himself. He didn't know if there was anything he could say that would assure her that wasn't true. Maybe it was true.

"Why don't you want to tell her yourself?"

House turned away from Wilson. He went back to the window and looked out. It was clear and warm outside, a reminder of the summer that had just passed.

"I just don't want to," House said.

"Why not?"

House shook his head slightly. His left hand out reached out to play with the blinds, idling flipping them open and closed. "I don't want to disappoint her again," he said softly.

"House, you're not going to disappoint her. You never have."

House shook his head slightly. He pushed open the door to the balcony. "Just make the call," he said, and walked out.

Wilson waited until the end of the day to call Pensacola, hoping that some idea of what to say would somehow announce itself. When he finally called, the answering machine picked up. He didn't leave a message.

He tried again an hour later, and heard Blythe's voice.

"Hello, Blythe," he said. "It's James."

She was quiet on the other end of the line, and he took a breath, finally deciding he'd just give her the news straight out, but she spoke first.

"His pain is back, isn't it?" Blythe waited for his answer, but she sounded as if she was sure of what he'd say.

Wilson leaned forward. He thought that he should be ashamed of himself for being grateful he didn't have to tell her. "I'm sorry," he said. "How did you know?"

He could hear the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor, and he pictured her pulling out a kitchen chair to sit. "You'll think it's silly," she said.

"No I won't."

"I had a dream," she said. "It was nothing special. I think it was when we were living in California the second time. I don't even remember all the details, but Greg was using his cane." Wilson heard her take a deep breath. "He's never had a cane in any of my dreams before, even after he got sick, even after he'd used one for years."

Wilson never remembered his dreams. Maybe that was for the best. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"It wasn't your fault," Blythe said.

Wilson tried not to think about everything that was his fault. "I wish you'd seen him."

"So do I, but maybe it wasn't meant to be," she said. "Can't he try it again? It worked last time, maybe ..."

"He doesn't want to." Wilson had gone over all the options with House even before the treatment failed, including the possibility of another dose. House insisted he hadn't changed his mind in the last few days. "He says that if it didn't stick the first time, there's no reason to expect it'll work the second time."

Blythe was quiet, and Wilson gave her time to think. He'd learned that whenever she went silent, it was because she was working something out in her mind, trying to put it into words. If she was there, in the room with him, maybe he could have read her thoughts just from her expression.

"Did he ask you to call me?"

Wilson nodded. "Yes."

"Then he knows I'll be calling," she said.

Wilson knew she was right. House would probably be expecting her call. He was probably wondering why she hadn't called yet. "He should be home by now," he said.

"Good."

She was quiet again, and Wilson waited.

"James," she finally said, "just tell me something. Was he happy?"

Wilson pictured House out in the rainstorm, running up stairs, balancing on a skateboard. He tried not to remind himself of House sitting alone, in his office, thinking that he'd been wrong -- not knowing he'd been right, not knowing then what Wilson had done.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "I think he was."

Blythe sighed. "Then that's all that matters."


	19. When Greg Called At Christmas

It was late when Blythe and John got home.

"It's not late, it's early," John said. "It's past midnight. That makes it early morning."

"But we haven't been to bed," Blythe said. She smiled at the old argument. "That makes it late."

John chuckled slightly and reached across the car seat in the dark to squeeze her hand. "Merry Christmas."

Blythe smiled. She lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of his hand. "Merry Christmas."

Somehow, in the past couple of years, they'd built themselves a tradition: Christmas Eve dinner at her sister's -- complete with Sarah's grandchildren anxious to open presents -- then a Midnight service. Neither John nor Blythe were ever religious, but Blythe loved singing carols in the church Sarah attended. The lights were always turned low, and the candles at each window and at each pew flickered in time with the music as the congregation sang out and breathed in.

She had looked over at one point to see John, stooped over to share a hymnal with Sarah's six-year-old granddaughter Lizzie. He leaned down to whisper something into her ear and she giggled.

On the way home, they'd stopped near a park. John turned off the engine and held her hand as they walked out toward the water -- another new tradition. They sat and listened to the waves lapping against the shore.

There'd been a full moon, and John stared out across the water.

"It would have been nice to have had a daughter," he said.

Blythe turned to look at him. They almost never talked about other children, and John had never been the one to even bring up the subject. At first she thought it was because he was disappointed in her, disappointed that she couldn't have any more babies after Greg. Then she realized he wasn't upset with her, he just didn't want her to feel bad, so he never mentioned it.

"Not instead of Greg," John said, just in case she'd misunderstood. She hadn't.

They'd once discussed adoption, but Blythe had seen how hard the constant moves were for Greg, and she didn't know if it would be fair to force that life onto another child, and she never talked of it again.

"A girl would have been nice," Blythe said. She remembered the way Lizzie had latched on to John six months ago when he fixed her bicycle, and how she kept bringing him other things to fix every time she saw him: the tangled string of her yo-yo, the leaky water gun, the old doll with an arm that had come loose. Each time John had quietly found some way to mend them, though he'd only laughed and told her that she was on her own when she told him that her computer was broken.

Blythe smiled. "If we'd had a little girl, she would have had you wrapped around her little finger."

"You say that like it would have been a bad thing." John wrapped one arm around Blythe and pulled her close. She felt him kiss her forehead.

Whenever she'd allowed herself to daydream about the other children they'd never had, she'd usually imagined another boy, someone for Greg to play with, someone to grow up with. Someone who would be there for him now. Someone like James.

But a girl would have been nice too. With a daughter, maybe John would have allowed himself to show his softer side more often. Maybe he wouldn't have worried so much about setting the stern example for Greg, and instead learned how to relax and be gentle.

They sat on the bench for a few minutes more, until Blythe shivered, and John led the way back to the car. He turned up the heater and turned toward home.

The answering machine was blinking red in the kitchen, and Blythe hit the button.

"Hi Mom." Blythe smiled when she heard Greg's voice. "I guess you guys are already up at Aunt Sarah's."

John poured himself a glass of water and paused to listen.

"I suppose Dad's already into the eggnog and you're suffering through another dried out turkey."

"We both suffered," John muttered, then chuckled as Blythe shushed him.

The tape was quiet for a moment, and she thought maybe Greg had hung up, but then his voice continued. "Just wanted to say Merry Christmas," he said, then the sound of the phone hanging up.

"Merry Christmas," John said. He swallowed down the last of his water and put the empty glass next to the sink. "I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

Blythe hit "play" on the machine. "In a minute." She listened to the recording again. Something sounded wrong, off key almost, but she couldn't say what. The sound of Greg's voice sent shivers down her spine.

The same few words echoed through the kitchen again. There was something there in the gaps, in the silences, in the spaces between Greg's words, and Blythe couldn't quite make it out.

She listened again.

"You're not going to try and call him now, are you?" John had changed into his pajamas and stood in the hallway, the light behind him. "It's after two o'clock."

Blythe shook her head. "No."

She paused with her finger over the machine, but didn't press the button again. She didn't delete the message either. Blythe nearly asked John if Greg sounded all right to him, but didn't. John had never been very good at listening to the silence, at hearing what it was that Greg wasn't saying.

She managed to put off calling Greg until 8 a.m. John was still asleep when she picked up her phone and called his number. The answering machine picked up.

"Hi honey," she said, "I guess you're out. I hope it's not problems with a patient again. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Call me when you get home." Blythe paused just a moment. "Love you," she said, and hung up.

She was about to make omelets for their Christmas brunch when she picked up the phone and tried again. Still no answer. She left another message.

At 11 a.m., she tried his cell phone. He didn't pick up. His office phone rang through to the voice mail.

Blythe told herself that Greg was just busy, but she couldn't shake the sound of his voice: quiet and alone.

She told herself that she wouldn't bother James. Not this time. She'd barely spoken to him in months. He was never at Greg's place whenever she called, and the few times she'd mentioned his name, Greg had just mumbled that he'd hadn't seen him.

"Wilson's got a lot on his mind," he'd said. "He's too busy worrying about things that are none of his business."

Blythe hadn't been able to bring herself to ask if they'd fought. She was afraid of what the answer would be.

But as autumn turned darker and colder, she began to feel as if she had no idea what was happening in Greg's life. He'd been in a bad mood during nearly every call, barely speaking at all, and telling her nothing of what was going on.

"I've been busy," he'd say.

"It's nothing important," he'd say.

"I'm just tired," he'd say, followed by, "no reason" when she'd ask why.

If he had been in the same room with her, he would have only shrugged at every question, and not said anything at all.

Blythe wondered if this was how John had felt for so many years -- left somewhere on the outside of his son's life, trying to see what was happening through narrow cracks.

She finally gave in and dialed James' number. His cell phone rang three times before he picked it up.

"Hello?"

He sounded like he'd been sleeping, and Blythe told herself that she shouldn't have bothered him. He'd probably been working late at the hospital. Maybe Greg had been there late too.

"Hello, James, I'm sorry to bother you."

"Blythe, hello," he said. "Merry Christmas."

"Thank you." She nearly wished him a Merry Christmas too, then remembered he was Jewish. She wondered if he would have been offended if she'd said it. She didn't think so. "Happy holidays," she said.

"Thanks."

"James, I'm sorry, I know you've probably been busy all night and I don't want to bother you ..."

"You're not a bother."

"Thank you, but I'm wondering, have you seen Greg?"

James was quiet for a moment. "Not since yesterday." His voice was darker and quieter. He was hiding something -- something he didn't want to talk about to anyone, Blythe guessed. "Why?"

"He left a message here last night," she said. "It's probably nothing, but it seemed ... strange."

"Strange how?"

"I don't know if I can explain it." Blythe sat at the kitchen table. John had the TV on in the living room and was flipping past news stations. "He said he was calling to wish us a Merry Christmas, but it wasn't what he said, it was how he said it."

James was quiet again.

"Something felt ..." Blythe considered her words. "Something felt wrong. And now he's not answering any of his phones."

"He ... he had a ... a bad case," James said after a moment. "Maybe he took his phone off the hook." It didn't sound like he believed his own words.

He took a deep breath and Blythe could hear his footsteps as he crossed a room. "I'll check in on him."

"James, I don't want to put you out."

"It's not a problem," he said. "I don't have anything else going on. I should probably do it anyway."

Blythe wondered why it was James sounded like the idea of seeing Greg was a burden, a chore -- something he had to do, rather than something he wanted to, but she didn't want to know the answer. She felt her mood turn darker at the idea of both James and Greg alone, both so far from home.

"Thank you," she said, but somehow she didn't feel any better after she hung up.

------------

Wilson couldn't remember driving away from House's place. All he could see when he tried to remember anything about the past hour was House looking up at him blearily, the empty pill bottle with his patient's name on it, the puddle of vomit with barely digested pills in it.

Then there was nothing but emotions -- anger and disgust and guilt -- and he knew he had to get out before he did something stupid -- something even more stupid than he'd done until now.

By the time he realized where he was, he was sitting in his car, in the driveway of his old house. It was vacant now too, the real estate agent's sign on the lawn. Even Julie had run away, had left him behind.

He leaned his head against the steering wheel, his hands were gripping the wheel so tightly he could feel the tension up into his forearms. When he finally let go, his hands shook and he jammed them into his coat pockets.

Everything had gone wrong. Everything was going wrong. Everything was wrong.

Wilson couldn't remember the last time he'd managed to do something right. The last time he'd felt good. Hell, he couldn't even name the last time he hadn't felt like crap.

And now he'd screwed up again. Left House on his own floor, in a puddle of his own waste.

"I trust you James." How many times had Blythe said that to him? How many times had he lied and told her he could handle everything? Wilson idly thought that she hadn't said it this time, and he thought maybe she'd known what had been happening, had picked up on every mistake he'd made and was expecting him to fail again.

Wilson knew he should get back to check on House. He knew he shouldn't have left him there in the first place. But he hadn't been able to stop himself, and now he didn't seem able to spare the energy to start the engine and turn back.

He wasn't sure when it all went bad, when he lost control. Tritter was like a cancer. Every time Wilson thought they'd cut him out, he'd recur in another place. He beat every treatment. And now he'd gone malignant, spreading everywhere. He was Stage IV gone wild.

Wilson thought he'd finally come up with the solution that would kill the cancer, eliminate the danger. But House wouldn't accept the deal, like a worn-down patient refusing treatment.

Wilson sat back and looked at the house he and Julie had shared -- a two-story colonial with a slate roof, clapboard siding painted a pale yellow and an oversized yard with big trees. She'd convinced him that they should buy a big place, so they'd have plenty of room for parties.

"And children," she'd said the first time they looked at it. "You'll make a good father."

Wilson closed his eyes. Good thing they never had kids. He'd probably screw that up too, and they'd end up resenting him just like House and his Dad.

For a moment, Wilson felt something like sympathy for John House. He remembered every dire warning that John had ever given about trying to deal with his son, about trying to reason with him, trying to discipline him, trying to make him do anything. Then he shook his head and let the feeling pass. No one deserved John's brand of discipline. Maybe House's asinine behavior now was nothing more than a way he'd found to cope with John in the first place.

Wilson told himself again that he should get back to House, to check on him, but he still didn't start the car. He was afraid of what would happen if House was still there, still needed his help, and he didn't know if he had anything left to give.

Sometimes Wilson felt as if he was dangling over a cliff, hanging onto a rope with one hand and trying to pull himself up, while House dangled from the other, pulling them both down. And now he'd reached the point where he had to decide whether he could do anything other than let House fall, and save himself, or give in and tumble down with House.

He opened his eyes and took another look at the house. It was empty, dark and bare. Every other place on the block was lit up for the holiday. When he looked to the right, he could just make out the Stewarts through their picture window -- one of the kids was running past, Eddie was reading something, the lights were blinking on the tree.

Wilson took a deep breath and blew it out. He took another breath. He took his hands out of his pockets, reached for the ignition and started the car.

Wilson knocked on the door and took out his key. He wouldn't be surprised if he walked in to find House still passed out on the floor. He also wouldn't be surprised if House slammed the door in his face. He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head saying that House could be worse than he imagined -- after all, he'd left House in the middle of an OD, though Wilson kept trying to tell himself that most of the pills were in the slick of vomit on the floor.

He heard House's uneven step on the other side of the door and put the key back in his pocket.

House pulled open the door and leaned on it. He didn't say anything, just glared at him. Wilson noticed House's eyes were dark, but firmly focused and he let himself let go of his worry.

Anger replaced it.

"Call your mother," Wilson said, and turned to leave.

"You do it." House's voice was rough, and Wilson briefly wondered if his throat was sore. He told himself that House deserved the pain.

"No," he said.

"C'mon," House said. "I've been sick and she'll figure it out. We don't want her to worry, now do ..."

"No," Wilson repeated. He took a step back toward House. "I'm done. I'm through. You screwed this up, you need to deal with this yourself."

House stared at him and Wilson knew he was judging just how far he could push him.

"I mean it," Wilson said. "I'm through with the lies and the bullshit and the mind games."

"What do you expect me to do?" House asked, and Wilson shook his head. They both knew what he had to do. "What am I supposed to say to her?"

Wilson stared down at the tile in the entry way. "I don't care," he said, then sighed as he realized that was true. He wanted to care -- he knew he should care -- but somehow Blythe had become just one more burden, just one thing that he couldn't handle, just one more thing to pull him down.

"She's your mother, House. Lie to her, tell her the truth, I don't care."

Wilson turned and left. He didn't look back.

-----------

Blythe wasn't hungry, but went through the motions getting Christmas dinner ready. She didn't have to think. She and John had made a standing rib roast their own quiet holiday feast more than fifteen years ago.

"Better than turkey any day," John had said the first year they had it, and Blythe had agreed.

Every year, they'd eat late in the afternoon. John would find some Christmas music on the radio, and they'd exchange presents during dessert.

John offered to peel the potatoes while Blythe made the salad.

"Thank you," she said, then stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding a tomato and trying to remember what she should do next.

"Are you still thinking about that call last night?" Blythe turned to see John watching here.

She shrugged. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"Of course it's nothing," John said, and turned back to his potatoes. "If anything was wrong Wilson would have called."

Blythe nodded but didn't say anything. She hadn't told John anything about her worries for James. She told herself that he wouldn't understand, but maybe it was because if he thought Greg and James were fighting, he would have blamed Greg, and she didn't want to choose sides.

She jumped when the phone rang and grabbed a towel to dry her hands. She picked it up before it rang a second time.

"Merry Christmas." Greg's voice sounded rough, but Blythe smiled when she heard it.

"Merry Christmas, Greg. How are you doing?"

"I'm OK."

"You don't sound OK."

He chuckled slightly, but the sound was dark and Blythe didn't hear any humor in it. "I swallowed something that didn't agree with me."

"But you're going to be OK?"

"I slept it off," Greg said. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"That's all right." Blythe tried to quiet the emotions that gripped her stomach. Nothing worked. Instead she only worried more. She turned to John. He'd stopped peeling and was watching her. She nodded and he smiled slightly. "You can take it easy today, right?"

"Sure." She heard him take a deep breath. "I've just got something I need to do. I don't want to do it, but I think I have to."

"Something important?"

"Yeah," he said.

"For a patient?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Kind of."

"Then I know you'll do the right thing," she said. "You always do."

Blythe heard John snort, but she didn't look at him. She could hear Greg moving around as he spoke, heard the sound of a door opening, then closing, something zipping open, then shut.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm OK," he said. He was quiet for a moment. "I might not get a chance to call you again for a while."

"Are you going someplace?"

"Maybe."

Blythe felt her stomach clench tighter. She turned slightly away from John, in case he could read the emotions on her face.

"Don't you know?"

"Not exactly."

Blythe nearly asked him why, but didn't. She knew he'd never answer her.

"All right. You be careful, right?"

"Yeah." She heard the jangle of keys. "I've got to go," he said.

"All right. Goodbye, Greg. I love you."

He didn't answer her, and Blythe could only listen to the silence as he hung up the phone.


	20. When Greg Apologized

Blythe didn't recognize the number on her cell phone's display, but the area code was 609 and the first three numbers matched the exchange for Princeton-Plainsboro. She stopped her shopping cart on the edge of the aisle and flipped open the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi Mom."

She sighed. "Greg," she said, "thank God. I've been so worried."

"I always tell you not to worry."

"I know, but you were so sick when you called last time."

Greg was quiet for a moment. "Who told you I was sick? Did Wilson ..."

"James didn't say anything. He didn't have to." Blythe wondered for a moment if she'd said something wrong. Greg really did sound better, and she'd hoped that meant that he and James had worked out whatever problem it was that they'd had.

Now Blythe hoped she hadn't just made it worse again. "Nobody said anything. I'm your mother, Greg. I've nursed you through measles and mumps and tonsillitis and the flu. I know when you're sick."

"You forgot chicken pox."

"I didn't forget, I was just naming a few of the highlights." Blythe felt her fears ease again at the sound of Greg's teasing comment. "Should I mention every time you had a cold?"

"No," Greg said. "And I'm fine now."

Blythe wished she'd known what had been wrong before, but she'd never pushed him for an answer, afraid he wouldn't say anything at all. Since Christmas, he'd gone quiet, become a shadow of himself visible only from certain angles, only at certain times.

He'd sent her a short email before New Year's, saying he wasn't going anyplace after all, but never responded to any of the ones she'd sent in response.

When she finally called his office a week later, Dr. Cameron answered his phone.

"He's busy right now," she'd said. She spoke carefully, hesitating before she said anything at all, as if she was trying to measure the meaning of every word.

"That's fine," Blythe said. "I was just calling to say hello. He can call me back later."

"I don't know when he'll have a chance." Dr. Cameron hesitated again. "He's got a case." She reminded Blythe more of the anxious young woman they'd first met on their way to Paris -- the one who was eager to impress her and John -- rather than the confident doctor they'd just seen early last summer.

"Whenever he has time is fine," Blythe said. She thought she heard the young woman on the other end of the line sigh in relief before she hung up.

Greg had called two hours later. His voice was rough and he spoke quietly, as if there was someone else there that he didn't want to disturb. He only said a few words, and seemed to spill out the ones he did use in small doses.

"Are you all right?"

"Just tired."

"I guess you didn't have time to return the message I left for you at home yesterday."

"Sorry."

He was shutting himself down and shutting her out, and she knew that meant something was wrong, no matter what he said. Blythe listened to Greg's rough voice as Greg insisted he was all right. She heard him breathing fast, as if he had just run in from somewhere, though she knew that hadn't happened. He was in pain, she realized, and it was worse than normal.

"Can't I do something for you?" Blythe wiped away a tear from her eye. John had turned the TV off when the phone rang, and now he sat on the sofa, watching her as she stood at the edge of the dining room, one foot on the carpet, one on tile.

"No."

"I want to help." Blythe took a step toward the dining room, feeling hard tile under both her feet. Her voice was soft. "Please."

"I have to do this myself," Greg said.

"I could come up for a few days ..."

"No." Greg's voice was firm.

Blythe listened to him breathing, drawing in air in shaky gasps. "All right."

She tried to tell herself that at least Greg had called. That had to mean something. She felt a tear rolling down her cheek.

"I hope things get better soon, honey," she said.

Greg was quiet for a moment. "So do I," he said, and hung up.

John was standing beside her when she looked up. He held out a tissue. "What's he done this time?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. He won't tell me anything."

Blythe wiped her eyes, then stared down at the phone in her hand. She thought about calling James. He would know. He would tell her.

"If it was important, Wilson would call," John said, as if he'd read her thoughts. "Greg's a grown man, Blythe. Maybe he needs to work this out on his own."

She'd nodded and told him he was right, though she wasn't sure if that was true. But she didn't call. She decided to give Greg the space he wanted.

She couldn't stop the thoughts that flashed through her mind, though -- thoughts that Greg's pain had gotten even worse, that he'd lost a patient, that something was wrong at the hospital.

Thoughts that whatever it was that had driven Greg and James apart had only worsened, and Greg was all alone.

And so was James.

But now, on the phone, Greg's voice sounded lighter. She was reminded of the days he was in high school and he came home from school after doing well on a test. Or when he was even younger and came home with some new joke and couldn't wait to tell it to her.

"Dwayne the bathtub, I'm dwowning," he'd say and laugh with that sweet soprano he'd had when he was a boy, and she'd laugh along with him, not because of the old joke but because he was happy.

She wouldn't say that he sounded happy on the phone, but it seemed as if some burden had dropped away and he was surprised by the sudden lightness.

"Well, I'm glad you're fine now." Blythe angled her cart further to the side to make way for a young women with a toddler making her way slowly down the aisle. "Are you at work?"

"I'm at the hospital," Greg said. "I'm in one of the lounges and thought I'd call while I had the chance."

Blythe nodded. That was why she didn't recognize the number. "I'm glad you did." She was quiet, just listening to the sound of him on the other phone, saying nothing. His breath no longer came out in rough bursts, but instead had smoothed to the point she couldn't make it out. Instead she could hear him in motion: the squeak of a chair, the faint tapping of something against a hard surface, something rolling from side to side.

"You still there?"

"Sorry, just thinking," Blythe said. "I was remembering when you were a little boy, and the teachers could never get you to sit still."

"Yeah," Greg said, "sorry about all that."

"Sorry? What for?"

"All those times you were called into school because I'd screwed up."

"Honey, you were just a little boy." The light tone was still there, but Greg sounded as if he was serious.

"Yeah, well, I'm still sorry." He took a deep breath. "And I'm sorry I make you worry. You shouldn't have to worry about me."

Blythe shook her head. "Greg, I don't understand. Is something wrong?"

"Like that," Greg said. "You're worried again, aren't you?"

"It's just because I'm confused."

Greg sighed. "Why does everyone keep saying that like I've never apologized to anyone before?"

"Because you suck at it?" Blythe could barely hear James' voice. It was a soft mumble, but she could tell he was somewhere near Greg, and she smiled to know that they were together.

"Hey, you bought it." Greg's voice was slightly muffled as he turned away from the phone.

"Apparently, I must have really wanted to believe it."

Blythe moved her cart out of the cereal aisle and around the corner. She stopped it next to the bags of cat litter, hoping it would be quieter there, that she'd be able to hear everything from Greg's side of the line. It was good to hear Greg and James together, their voices falling into the easy patterns that she'd been afraid they'd lost forever.

"That whole believing things worked for Tinkerbell, didn't it?" Blythe wasn't sure if Greg remembered that she was still on the phone with him. She didn't care.

They're friends again, she thought to herself. Greg has his friend back.

"You're not Peter Pan," James said. "You're not even one of the Lost Boys."

Greg wasn't lost, Blythe thought. Not anymore. She laughed a little.

"Sorry, Mom," Greg said, "I think I was saying something about an apology."

"And I was telling you that I don't need one." Blythe leaned forward on her cart, ignoring every other sound around her in the store. "I'm just happy knowing that things are better. For both of you."

"It was never that bad." Greg's voice was quieter, more serious. "And I'm sorry I made you worry."

"I know you are," she said. Blythe didn't need an apology, but maybe Greg needed to give one. "Thank you."

She heard another voice from Greg's side of the connection. She couldn't make out what he'd said. It didn't belong to James, and didn't remind her of either Dr. Chase or Dr. Foreman.

"All right." Greg answered the man. He paused for a moment. "I need to take care of something," he said. "Maybe ... maybe we can talk more later."

"I'd like that."

"Good. 'Bye Mom."

"Goodbye, Greg," she said. She heard him hang up the phone, then put hers back in her purse.

Greg has his friend back, she thought to herself and smiled. And so does James.

-------------

"You're paying for pizza," House said, and tossed his backpack onto the desk.

"I paid for dinner last night," Wilson said. "And I stocked your kitchen with food two days ago, before you came home."

"I don't cook."

"You think I don't have anything better to do than cook for you?" Wilson shook his head and watched as House filled the backpack with two new medical journals, his iPod and a notebook he'd been scribbling away in earlier.

"You owe me that much, at least," House said. "Don't you?"

Wilson sighed. House knew how to take advantage of guilt. Sometimes it was just easier to give in and let him. It made it easier for Wilson to face himself in the mirror. "Fine," he said. "Let's go."

"In a minute." House left his bag on the desk. "Gotta pee." He walked out the door and to the left.

Wilson shook his head and sat at House's desk. Cameron had wanted to clean it up while House was in rehab. Neither Foreman nor Chase seemed to care if she did. Wilson had stopped her.

"If House wants something cleaned up," he'd told her, "he'll have to do it himself. You can't do it for him."

"I was just thinking about the reports that Cuddy wanted done," she said. "I thought if I went over them ..."

"Take them to him. It'll give him something to do. Or something else to bitch about."

Now Wilson leaned back in House's chair and closed his eyes. He reminded himself of his new rules, the ones he'd given himself as he sat in the dark on Christmas night. Rule number one: he couldn't control House. Rule number two: House couldn't control him.

He hadn't told House about them. He wasn't sure if House needed to know. It was more important that Wilson remember them.

He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling tiles. So what did that say about dinner tonight? Was he just giving in? Wimping out? Letting House make all the rules again? He put both hands against his eyes, then rubbed at his temples. It was too much to think about. He lowered his hands and shifted in the chair, leaning down with both elbows on the desk. Maybe he wanted to cook -- and if House wanted to eat, that was fine too.

He jumped when the phone rang. The conference room was empty. No one was there to answer it. Wilson was about to let it slip over into voice mail when he glanced at the display and saw the number.

He let it ring again. He wasn't sure if he was ready for this. He reached over with his left hand, and picked it up.

"Hello, Blythe," he said.

"James!" She didn't sound angry at the sound of his voice. Maybe that meant she wasn't upset with him for what he'd done. Maybe she didn't know everything that happened in the past few months. Or maybe she was really good at hiding her feelings.

"I'm so glad to hear your voice," she said, then paused. "I thought I called Greg's office."

"You did," Wilson said. "I was just here waiting for him."

"Oh, that's fine then." He heard her sigh and wondered again if he should have picked up. "How's the weather up there?" she asked. "I heard it was supposed to be nice."

"It is. We're having a January thaw."

The sun came out the day House was finally released from rehab, and it had been shining every day since. Wilson was starting to wonder if the fates were trying to tell him something. If they were, he hadn't figured out the message yet.

"Oh, that's good. I worry about Greg when it's cold," Blythe said.

Wilson smiled. "I thought he said you weren't supposed to worry."

"He never said I shouldn't," Blythe said. "He just said he was sorry that I did."

Wilson looked toward the hallway. No sign of House. "I'm sorry too," he said. He took a deep breath. He and House were stumbling their way back toward something that felt normal again. Hearing Blythe's voice, he knew he wanted things to feel normal with her too, but he couldn't as long as his own ocean of guilt stretched out between them. "I ... I haven't been a very good friend to him lately."

"James ..."

"I don't know what he's told you."

"James ..."

"I know I've told you I'd keep an eye on him for you. I haven't done a very good job of that either."

"James ..."

"Maybe you never should have trusted me in the first place."

Wilson had always heard that you were supposed to feel better after a confession. He never did. It hadn't felt good to tell his wives, it hadn't felt good to come clean to House about Grace, and he didn't feel good now. But he'd always confessed. He wondered what a psychologist would make of that.

The silence from Blythe's end of the phone wasn't helping.

Wilson could hear his heart beating, thumping at a faster pace the longer the silence continued.

"James," Blythe finally said, "I don't know everything that's been going on there, and I'm not sure if I should. But you have nothing to apologize to me for."

Wilson shook his head. "You don't know what I've done."

He heard Blythe take in a deep breath. "I know that I haven't been a perfect mother," she said. "I've made mistakes. I've wished that I could go back and do things differently. But I can't. And I know John isn't perfect, and he wishes he'd changed things too. And I love Greg, but I know he isn't perfect either."

She stopped for a moment, as if she was considering her words. Wilson saw two med students walk past the office. House still hadn't shown up.

"I'm happy that you're there," Blythe said, "even if you're not perfect." Her voice was still bright, still somehow upbeat, despite everything he'd said. Despite everything she'd said. "I don't expect you to be perfect. You're good for Greg. You make things better, and that's important."

Wilson shook his head. "Sometimes..." He looked out at the empty hallway again, then swiveled in the chair until he was facing the back of the room, staring instead at House's collection of books and magazines. "Sometimes I wonder if things will ever get better."

Blythe was quiet again. He could hear her steps on a hard surface, and he pictured her pacing on the tile floor of her kitchen. "For years," she said, "I used to have two dreams for Greg. One was that he'd finally be happy."

"What was the other one?"

"That he have a friend. Someone who understood him. Someone who cared about him," Blythe said. "You."

Wilson leaned back in the chair. He didn't say anything.

"I believe that things can still get better," Blythe said, "because I've already had one of my dreams come true."

Wilson knew that her words were probably nothing more than a mother seeing what she wanted to see, and believing what she wanted to believe. The same false hope he heard from his patients -- and from their mothers.

He wanted to believe her. To believe that things could still somehow be good.

He remembered seeing House lying on his floor, seeing House after he'd been shot, seeing House when Stacy left the first time, seeing him struggle to walk. He rubbed his eyes again. He didn't have Blythe's faith, but maybe she had enough for both of them.

"I hope you're right," he said.

Wilson heard the door open and swiveled around to see House walking across the room.

"Thank you," he said to Blythe. "Greg's here. I'll let you talk to him."

"All right," Blythe said. "And thank you, James. Always."

"You're welcome." Wilson stood and held the phone out to House. "It's your mother," he said. "She wants to talk to you."


End file.
